Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are many thrilling sounds on a battlefield. “Thrilling” being used only in the context of pure, heart-stopping adrenaline: the whizz of blasterbolts, the churning rumble of explosives, the cries of enemies and allies alike. Each leads down its own twisted avenue of contradiction, but none of them can hold a candle to the most blood-boiling sound of all: some di’kut whining about it.

“Sir, we’re being overrun! Perhaps a tactical retreat—”

“Hold your ground!” Crosshair doesn’t so much as flinch as an angry burst of light explodes mere meters behind him. He retaliates against its perpetrator with a shot to the forehead, teeth baring in a grimace. The gravel beneath his elbows digs past the seam of his armor, cutting into his skin long enough to numb.

Ipoth is a nearly uninhabitable world, its scorching heat intolerable to all but its reptilian natives. The Imperial base they’re protecting now operates primarily underground, running mines deep into the planet’s dry soil. The few buildings that dare to sit above ground are covered in reflective shielding, casting a glare from the low sun directly into Crosshair’s eyes.

Why the Bad Batch would be helping this seemingly random group of aliens, he does not know. Perhaps the base has something valuable to them, but he has no way of guessing due to the files’ classification beyond his rank. All he does know is that he had not been glad in any way, shape, or form to receive the report that they had been sighted here among ‘local insurgents likely to be gearing up for revolt.’

His squad had touched down expecting a manageable incoming assault—and privately, on Crosshair’s part, to leave empty-handed as usual—only to be greeted with a flood of armed natives descending from the rocky hills surrounding the base.

Naturally, there was sign of neither hide nor hair from their main targets.

Crosshair’s yell of “Push forward!” had spurred his troopers into action as they balked at the incoming hoard. The fifty or so TKs that had arrived before them to deal with the natives had already been doing so, outpacing the elite troopers in mowing down Ipothians with heavy artillery.

Crosshair shoots two more reptoids with the same bolt, shifting in the gravel once more. Maybe the Batch had already bailed. Doubtful, but he can hope.

A fresh wave of TKs appears from the lifting gate of the compound, sending more flashes of blue into the crowd. They’re quickly swamped, and Crosshair sneers, putting the aliens’ brief distraction to use as he shoots a few in the back.

The Ipothians favor staffs as weapons, which sounds easy enough to handle at first, until one factors in the charged balls of energy they are able to fire out of said staffs. The things don’t seem to be as deadly as blasterfire, but kriff, if they aren’t nearly as effective in knocking troopers off their feet.

The sniper guns down a few more Ipothians from the ridge he has taken shelter on. Despite the sun’s low position, its heat is still blazing. He has to be careful to avoid its blinding spotlight with his rifle, sweating in his dark armor as he squints through the harsh light to the battle below.

He swivels his sights onto another group of aliens just in time to see one of his own squad get hit square in the face with one of the sickly green energy orbs. The trooper falls, and Crosshair takes aim at the invididuals in the swarm that descend on him. His quick reflexes eliminate about half of them, but not swiftly enough to prevent one from jabbing the pointed end of her spear into the soft fabric exposed at the trooper’s neck.

Crosshair scoffs, taking down her and the other remnants surrounding the bleeding trooper. With no cooldown time between shots, his rifle is growing dangerously hot in his hands.

His aim turns up and beyond the smaller waves of Ipothians his troops are eliminating. The majority of the hordes are still bombarding the Imperial compound ahead. The sniper scans the sea of dark purple scales and flashes of green, but finds no distinctive gray armor. A quick sweep over the compound itself, and he can see aliens beginning to run out onto the catwalks between the buildings, blasting or stabbing the TKs that fire fruitlessly into their midst. The compound’s wall must have been breached on the other side.

The sniper sneers as he lowers his rifle. Perhaps a base taken down so easily deserves to be wiped out. Maybe the new troops assigned here after the alien insurgents are dealt with will be more competent.

For now, there seems to be little practicality in staying. His true targets are nowhere in sight, and the situation within the compound has escalated beyond the appropriate application for him and his troops. This is grunt work, only solvable by brute force, not the strategic precision of the elite.

Reluctantly, he thumbs his comm. “Fall back.”

“Sir?” ES-07’s heated tone darkens his scowl as he begins climbing up the ridge, keeping low against the rock and watching his back. “Surely we’re capable of finishing off a couple of backwater savages.”

“They are not our targets,” he growls, ducking beneath a sudden crackle of light that sails past his helmet. He barely turns to shoot down its source. “Fall in line, trooper.”

As he says it, the edge of a shadow passes over him. Crosshair allows himself a glance up, squinting against the brightness. His brow raises at the sight that greets him.

Huh. The idiots in the compound must have thrown quite the tantrum to summon the aid of an Imperial light cruiser. That, or there was something truly important hidden within its walls. Something, he supposes as he picks up his pace, that they didn’t want falling into enemy hands, but were more than fine with being destroyed rather than exposed.

“Return to the ship, on the double!” he barks into his comm. The energy orbs are flying by more frequently now. The aliens had spotted him as he moved up the incline. The sniper barely misses a double blast as he pulls himself up to the safety of shielded higher ground, rolling to his feet in an instant. In the distance, his squad’s shuttle peeks out from where it’s hidden between some of the planet’s scraggly trees.

He can hear the pound of his troopers’ feet behind him, and the war cries of the natives beyond that.

It’s a long distance to sprint with the possibility of enemies appearing right on their heels, but they make it to the ship with minimal casualties. ES-10 gets hit by one of the blasts halfway there, resulting in 07 lagging behind to scrape him off the floor. The trooper manages to lug him back to the ship herself, but judging by the scent of melting plastoid that slips through the filters of Crosshair’s helmet, and the pained groans from 10, that could end up going either way.

Once inside the shuttle, he steps aside to let 07 drag him through to the med droid. He spares them only one glance as he mentally adds them to the headcount of grimy, sweaty troopers piling in.

No sooner has he accounted for each of his squad members’ presence (with the obvious subtraction of the one he had watched get skewered earlier), then there’s a scuffle at the boarding ramp, and the one he had been about to write off as joining her dead comrade appears.

And suddenly, Crosshair is very glad his expression is hidden by his helmet as he catches sight of what the trooper has in her arms.

It’s the kid. Thrashing like a trapped animal, her brown eyes blazing with all the desperate determination of one as well. Behind her, ES-08 grunts as one of the kid’s boots slams down on hers. The trooper elbows the panel for the ramp, dragging the kid further inside as it begins lifting behind her.

It only takes Omega a few seconds to notice him. When she does, her eyes widen, the wild kicks she has been pommeling her captor’s shins with pausing.

“Crosshair?”

It sounds almost like a plea, as if she expects him to race over and pry her loose from ES-08’s grip. He finds himself oddly frozen underneath her imploring gaze, staring at the scene as if through someone else’s eyes.

“Sir. We’ve been ordered to evacuate the area. Initiating takeoff.” One of the pilot’s voices crackles in his ear.

Behind ES-08’s back, the ramp slowly rears up—sealing off the last of the natural light behind them. The ship jolts beneath their feet, launching into a rapid ascent.

The sensation is enough to snap Crosshair out of his momentary freeze-up. He opens his mouth, readying to order 08 to do…something.

Throw the kid back, every particle of him screams, an uncomfortable sense of dread gnawing at him as he absorbs the situation. He doesn’t want her. She’s…not who he’s looking for. An expected side effect of capturing the others, yes, but not a target on her own.

What choice do you have? whispers the cold, hollow part of him that is so often in control these days. He’s painfully aware of his troopers all staring at him as the ship shudders around them, waiting his command for their new prisoner.

“Secure her,” he hears himself say distantly, turning away and stalking toward the cockpit.

He hears a gasp behind him—Shock? Dismay?—then a series of protests as the girl is dragged off to the pitiful excuse for a holding cell in the back of the shuttle. He doesn’t look back as he takes his seat in the cockpit.

Crosshair ignores the pounding of his heart as they draw nearer to breaking atmosphere, focusing instead on his anticipation for the inevitable smack of blasterbolts hitting the ship.

Where are they?

He has the kid. Hunter’s kid, for all intents and purposes. Why weren’t they barrelling off to the rescue, pursuing him at all costs?

Crosshair leans forward in his seat, peering out the viewport’s limited peripheral just in time to see bright flashes of green as the light cruiser in orbit opens fire on the compound now far below. Something lurches in his stomach.

“Contact the cruiser. I want clearance to return to the surface as soon as that strike is finished,” he hisses to the copilot.

The man gives a nod, lifting a hand to his ear piece—then pauses.

“Sir. Admiral Rampart is contacting us.”

Crosshair internally curses. “Put him through.”

A small holo of the Admiral springs to life from the ship’s dash. “Commander, report.”

“We’ve been ordered to evacuate Ipoth due to an orbital strike, Sir,” Crosshair says. “I have secured one of the members of ex-Clone Force 99. I intend to wait on clearance to return to the planet’s surface and lure the others out with the hostage. Assuming they’ve survived.”

“Oh, I think we can both assume they have.”Rampart gives him an icy smile. He pauses, considering. “Return to the Bastion. With the traitor.”

Crosshair’s eyes narrow. “Sir—”

“I will be expecting your squad shortly,” Rampart speaks over him, eyes hardening. Then he cuts the comm, flickering out of existence.

The sniper stares at the empty space the holo had just occupied, protest still lodged in his throat.

“Take us into hyperspace,” he finally says into the silence, tongue numb around the words. The pilot begins flicking switches, left hand slowly moving toward the final lever as he does.

Crosshair takes a breath, waiting up until the last second for the telltale shudder of an incoming assault, a ping on the radar, anything.

But it never comes.

He leans back in his seat, staring forward as the pinpricks of the stars outside swirl away into bright blue, jolting them far away from the carnage below.

He remains in the cockpit for the duration of the journey, gnawing a toothpick down to splinters and considering the situation at hand.

The kid’s a bargaining chip, plain and simple. Dragging her all the way back to Rampart’s ship like this is purely idiotic. The Batch had already been so close. He would have only had to wait a short while for Hunter and the others to crawl out from the ashes or spring up from the surrounding terrain to claim their precious little sister. Then they would be…taken care of.

Captured? Executed? Turned?

He’s not even entirely sure what he’s hoping to accomplish. Part of him had hoped to be done with all of them after Kamino. No more hunting his former brothers down, or obsessing constantly over their betrayal. He knew he’d never be able to escape the deep-rooted grudge he held for them, but the constant pursuit had lost a great deal of its appeal.

He didn’t want to have to care anymore. He wanted to serve the Empire, chase after other insurgents, and let former Clone Force 99 and all they represented fall by the wayside. Let them go on with their own pathetic route, and he with his own.

Except, Admiral Rampart didn’t see it that way. When the inevitable first sighting of the Bad Batch since Kamino’s downfall was reported, he had been livid. And full of questions. Questions that Crosshair had to answer very convincingly, given the fact that he had been under the spotlight for being the sole person who may or may not know just how they survived.

It had been…uncomfortable, to say the least. But he must have put on a good enough show, because here he is now: Still alive, and still under orders to hunt the most infuriating people in the galaxy.

The irony of being the one who originally asked to hunt down said people is not lost on him.

“Bring us in,” he mutters when they finally drop out of hyperspace, the grey hull of the Bastion sharpening into view.

He stands as they crawl into the hangar, making his way to the main body of the ship, where his troopers are already lining up to depart.

ES-08 shoves the kid forward to join them, shoulders tense beneath her armor. Judging by the glare Omega throws back up at her, she has not been behaving cooperatively. There’s a tiny pair of cuffs binding her wrists in front of her, the sort that’s likely designed to restrain alien prisoners of the smaller variety. Crosshair does not linger on the thought that they could be specifically designed for a child, despite the living evidence standing in front of him.

The kid’s attention snaps onto him as he falls into the lead position for their little party. He can feel her gaze burning into the back of his helmet as the boarding ramp lowers.

ES-10 is, of course, unable to join them given his current state. He looks stable enough, but the mess of bandaging and bacta patches covering his back where he lies face-down on a stretcher speaks to how hard he was hit. 07 mutters a request for permission to accompany him to the medbay, and Crosshair stiffly grants it, mind far from the present moment.

They leave them behind to be dealt with by the medics, departing into the hangar with the kid flanked by his remaining troopers on all sides. The formation is standard protocol for accompanying a prisoner, no matter how ridiculous it might look for a bunch of fully-armed adults to encircle a little girl like she’s a dangerous war criminal.

Crosshair marches them toward the wide corridor entrance that yawns into the hangar. Squads of TKs pass them by, a few helmets turning to stare at the anomaly in their midst. Their lack of discipline causes his lip to curl.

The sniper comes to a halt before the first turbolift he comes upon. After a brief consideration, he dismisses all but two of his troops, ordering them back to the barracks until further notice. It’s not exactly as if he needs them for guard duty, he thinks wryly as he allows ES-08 and ES-11 to escort Omega into the turbolift first.

Once they’re all in, he turns to face the doors, jabbing the control panel and watching the levels slowly tick up.

“Where are we going?” The whispered question comes from behind his back. If he didn’t feel a stab of annoyance, Crosshair might have been impressed at the kid’s gall for breaking the silence. She was surely scared out of her mind, getting marched into enemy headquarters all alone.

“The command deck,” ES-11 says, the ominous tone of his voice obviously intending to frighten.

Whether or not it works, Crosshair doesn’t know. He’s too preoccupied watching the doors slide open, posture straightening as he steps through them and approaches the figure waiting by the bridge’s holotable.

“Commander.” Rampart turns to greet him as he his troops fall into parade rest behind him, Omega still between them. His brow raises. “I sincerely hope this isn’t all that’s left of your command.”

Crosshair forces himself not to sneer, even under the safety of his helmet. “No, Sir. My troops suffered only one casualty. ES-09.”

“How unfortunate.” Rampart leans around him, eyes now fixed on a new, much shorter target. “But not an entirely failed mission.”

ES-08 and 11 automatically step forward, dragging the kid with them. She glares up at Rampart, face wrinkling into an expression that she likely believes will invoke fear.

The only thing it does invoke is the hint of a smug smile. “You didn’t mention it was the youngest,” Rampart murmurs lowly to Crosshair. Then, to the kid, “‘Omega,’ isn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer. Uncharacteristic, given the limited time Crosshair has spent in her presence.

“You may release her,” Rampart informs the troopers still keeping ahold of her. They step back obediently, falling into line on either side of the turbolift doors at a gesture from their Commander. Crosshair turns his attention back to the younger clone and Admiral still staring at each other.

“Have you ever been on a Star Destroyer, Omega?” Rampart asks abruptly, the calculating look in his eyes morphing to a pleasant smile.

To her credit, the kid doesn’t seem to buy into it. “No,” she grinds out, still glaring daggers.

The Admiral spares the surrounding bridge a glance as if it holds some level of interest to him. “That’s not entirely true though, is it? You were on one on Bracca. Though I suppose it was grounded.” In the same insufferably conversational tone, he adds, “What were you doing there?”

Omega presses her lips tightly together. The movement is not exactly hard to translate. A lack of subtlety that is standard for adolescence, Crosshair supposes.

Still, Rampart’s mask does not crack. If anything, his smile only widens. “You’ve been on a great many planets, haven’t you? Always on the move, never slowing down…” He begins to circle her, passing just in front of Crosshair and causing the kid to follow his movement with narrowed eyes. “Though that’s not your fault by any means. I would attribute that to the men who took you from Kamino. Your ‘brothers,’ as I believe you clones call each other?”

Omega’s chest puffs up at that, and for a moment, Crosshair is certain she’s going to snap. Rampart slows his pacing, waiting.

But the kid just takes a deep breath—and continues to glare mutely.

Rampart resumes his movement. Crosshair takes his own even breath, maintaining his statue-like stance despite the urge to cross his arms.

“I have a brother.” The Admiral’s sudden admittance nearly tempts his helmet to turn. He sees Omega twitch, clearly caught off guard as well.

Where the kriff is he going with this?

“We’re only apart by one year.” Rampart’s thumb rubs into his knuckles behind his back as he comes around once more. “He always insisted that he was right in all matters. Absolutely infuriating when we were younger.”

Here, he slows to a halt once more, stopping in front of Omega and staring down at her with sharp eyes. “He told me I would never amount to anything more than he would. That I wouldn’t make progress in the military; that I was too weak and unassertive to rise through the ranks.” His slight smile grows darker, something flashing behind his eyes that Crosshair decidedly does not like.

“Do you know what he’s doing now?” he asks lowly. He waits only a beat for her lack of response before murmuring, “Working in the Kessel spice mines. A filthy, dangerous, low-paying job that he shares with slaves.”

Omega blinks, the determined set of her jaw wavering. Crosshair doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs begin to burn.

“And look where I am now.” Rampart gives the bridge a slight gesture. “Admiral of my own Star Destroyer. While he plays in the mud.” For a split second, his eyes flicker to Crosshair. “So you see, Omega…Just because our brothers are older, or think they are wiser, doesn’t mean they are always right. Sometimes you must use your own head, and really think for yourself…”

He leans closer, and Omega dodges two steps to the side, eyes narrowing. Crosshair would be lying if he said the glare did not seem eerily familiar.

“What kind of life are you leading?” the Admiral asks, scrutinizing the girl like some particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. “Always running. Ducking for cover like fleeing womprats from a burning barn. Have you ever known anything but fear?”

It’s clear the kid is trying to stand her ground as the man takes another leisurely step toward her. And she succeeds, for the most part—all pulled back shoulders and chin jabbing defiantly upwards. Crosshair nearly rolls his eyes behind his helmet. It’s like watching a miniature replica of Hunter, complete with blatant dismissal of an authority figure.

“You don’t have to live like that anymore,” Rampart murmurs. “Not if you just tell me a few simple things.” One of the Admiral’s hands lifts to reach for her, and instinct finally wins again. The kid ducks back—and bumps straight into Crosshair.

The sniper looks down at her as she cranes her neck to look up toward him, eyes wide. Then she’s swiveling back to Rampart, shoulders squaring once more and small fists balling at her side. Like she’s about to lead an army against the smug man before her. The Admiral watches the scene with poorly disguised interest, pupils making tiny flickers over the two clones before him.

“I’m not going to do anything for you,” Omega hisses.

Rampart observes her a moment longer. Then he signals the ES troopers still waiting off to the side. They step forward, angling toward Omega as they approach.

“Take her to the brig.”

Crosshair’s brow raises at the abrupt end to the questioning. He had expected…more. At the very least, to have been tasked with dragging her off to detention himself. Not that he really cares either way. He steps further away from the girl as ES-08 grabs her arm, leading her toward the door. The kid throws a desperate glance back at him as she’s led away, stumbling slightly as she’s pushed to move along faster.

The sniper watches her depart with a slight pull between his brows.

Rampart does the same, but with a worrying gleam in his eye as he turns back to Crosshair.

“Interesting,” he remarks.

Crosshair scowls, remaining silent despite the obvious bait.

“I have a new assignment for you, Commander.” Rampart turns to face the stars beyond the wide viewports. The smile he’s trying to hide is as obvious as it is irritating. Regardless, he is the superior, and the sniper remains at attention.

“Sir,” he finally prompts as he recognizes that the man is willing to drag out the silence indefinitely.

“I am placing you in charge of interrogation.” Rampart eyes him. “You will conduct questioning of the prisoner.”

Crosshair stays quiet, though this time not out of spite. He has the vague feeling of having just been punched in the gut. And by Rampart, no less.

How pathetic.

“Sir,” he says, considering his words. “Your orders are…unusual.” He can’t help the hint of a sneer that slips into his voice as he adds, “My expertise do not involve anything close to interrogation procedures.” Which you karking well know. “Would it not be the most direct and simple route to use the girl as a hostage?”

“My orders may not suit your expectations, Commander, but they are just that—orders.” His superior turns back to face him, chin raised. It’s nothing like how the kid—or Hunter—did before, though. This is all snide, arrogant derision; not brave stupidity. And as an expert on snideness, arrogance, and derision, Crosshair feels qualified to identify the difference.

“You won’t repeat the same course of action that led to your failure on Kamino,” Rampart is saying. “You will gather what we need directly from the source, then strike the traitors in their own territory.”

The sniper’s eye twitches. “You want me to ask her where they might be? After they were just spotted on an apparently random Outer Rim planet. Sir.”

Rampart locks eyes with him through his visor. “A pack of womp rats rarely resides in a single burrow,” he utters lowly. “Their tunnels are often connected to a broader network.” He leans closer. “You will find that Rebel cells are very similar. She knows where they and the other vermin tend to hide.”

Crosshair doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the uncomfortable level of proximity between them. He is not so easy to intimidate as some child. The Admiral finally steps back after another long moment of silence, resuming his monologue.

“I believe you possess a certain…edge when it comes to this particular prisoner. Just observing the way she acts around you for a meager few moments, it’s obvious she possesses some degree of misguided trust toward you. Perhaps a result of your previous relationship with the other traitors?” He raises a brow as if expecting an answer, but continues on anyway. “Such a development could be utilized most advantageously. Assuming you possess enough ambition to take that advantage.”

“Yes, Sir,” he answers softly, allowing the underlying steel in his tone to speak for itself.

A smile flashes across Rampart’s features. “Good,” he says. “I shall look forward to your report. Dismissed.”

And with that, he turns sharply, leaving Crosshair to head back toward the turbolift with his pulse thrumming in his ears.

Chapter Text

There are interrogation chambers…and then there are interrogation chambers. Crosshair does not particularly desire to envision the scenario of dragging the kid into the latter kind, with probe droids and sharp machinery closing in from every angle. Not that he’s unfamiliar with exacting any such personal forms of violence—one doesn’t survive a war without having a few gory, up-close encounters with enemies—but still. One of the harshly lit rooms with a table and two benches will do just fine.

He picks at his gauntlets as he paces in front of the one-way mirror that looks into the empty room, shoving away the annoying little voice in his head that labels the action as fidgeting. He’s still trying to decide if he should leave his helmet on or off when the doors on the other side of the glass open to admit the problem of the hour.

The kid practically snarls at the two guards that shove her into the room, rushing to the doors as they snap shut behind her. She raises a fist, giving the metal a hearty punch.

Crosshair groans aloud as he sees her flinch, cradling her hand with a wince. Hadn’t those lugheads taught her anything? He didn’t have to guess which one of them was setting such an exemplary model of physical restraint.

He watches as she turns to face the room with nervous eyes, the fear she has been fighting so desperately to conceal showing itself on her face. It occurs to him then that her appearance has changed since Kamino. Her hair is a little longer, she’s grown an inch or two (still short, though), and it looks like the Batch has made an effort in getting her more battle-appropriate clothing.

Omega spends a few moments wandering the chamber, peering under the table and benches before scrutinizing the walls. The mirror he’s standing behind is given a particularly wary glance.

A sigh leaves him as she draws closer to the concealed door to his right. There doesn’t seem to be much point in putting this off any longer.

He steps through the door, causing the kid to nearly jump out of her skin at his sudden appearance. Lightning quick, her cuffed hands come up in the mimicry of raised fists—then drop as her expression morphs from surprise into one of…pure delight.

“Crosshair!” She’s barreling halfway toward him before some sense of self preservation seems to kick in, and she skids to a halt, a tinge of hesitance dampening her excitement.

The sniper stares. Then scowls, even though she can’t see it under his helmet.

“Sit down,” he states, pointing stiffly toward one of the benches.

Omega follows the direction of his finger with round eyes, looking back to him questioningly. “You’re…not here to help me, are you?” She asks softly.

“That depends on your definition of ‘help,’” he bites out, crossing his arms. “Sit.”

The kid’s shoulders wilt, expression taking on that of a kicked tooka’s. Crosshair pointedly ignores it, slowly circling the table until he faces her from the other side. He stands behind the bench, watching as she comes to stop behind the one on her side, mirroring him.

His scowl deepens as she remains standing, staring up at his masked face with those scrutinizing eyes. If it’s this hard to even get her to do something as simple as sitting down, how hard will it be to drag any useful information out of her?

“Why are you doing this?” she breaks the tense silence before he can, voice imploring.

“Doing what?”

Her lip curls into a frown. “Ordering me around. Keeping me prisoner. Working for the Empire.”

“I’ll be the one asking the questions,” he replies smoothly, leaning forward. “Now sit.”

And there it is again. The chin jut. Less than a minute in, and Crosshair already feels like tearing at the sparse hair making its way back onto his head.

“I don’t want to.”

“Who said you have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice.” A small gleam in her eye. Ah. She thinks she’s being clever. “That’s what Hunter told me.”

“Did he now?” Crosshair slowly leans back against the wall. “He’s made so many interesting ones lately. I suppose it’s good to know he’s taking full accountability for all of them.”

Omega frowns again, but kicks one leg then the other over the bench, sitting on the cold metal surface. Crosshair follows suit after a moment, taking the time to study her more closely. She doesn’t look much worse for the wear after being here for a few hours—there’s some dirt scuffed on her left cheek courtesy of Ipoth, and her hair is a little mussed. But then again, that could just be the way she usually wears it. How should he know? Hunter had once gone through a phase where he insisted a half-frizzed look of perpetual static was ‘cool as kriff.’

“Where are they?”

She blinks. Swallows, then asks, “Who?”

“You know who,” he sneers. “The rest of the squad.”

Your squad.

“Oh. I don’t know.” She shrugs in apparent nonchalance. Then, before he can open his mouth to growl out another question—or maybe a threat—she asks, “Why are you wearing your helmet?”

Beneath said helmet, he blinks. Then glares. “Because I like it. Now answer the question: Where is Hunter?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, having the audacity to sound frustrated. “He didn’t have time to tell me where we were supposed to go next before that trooper grabbed me.”

“He was there when you were taken?”

“No. I…sort of left the ship. He was off completing the mission.”

“What mission would that be?”

“Um…They didn’t tell me.”

Unlikely. There is, however, plenty more content to cover in their ‘conversation.’ He can come back to that later.

“Where have you been operating out of in the past months?” he asks, unfolding his arms in favor of resting his hands on the table’s edge. Push forward. You’re in control here.

“What do you mean?” she asks, though by the nervous look flitting across her face, she knows exactly what he means.

“Hunter wouldn’t spend all this time merely scrounging for crumbs planet to planet.” He neatly laces his fingers together. “He’d establish contacts. Places to lie low between ‘jobs.” He doesn’t bother to hide his derision at the word. As if anything they were doing now amounted to what all of them had done before. “Give me names. Planets you visit frequently. People you talk to often.”

Omega gnaws on her lip, eyes darting around the cell. Crosshair feels a small inkling of hope. Maybe the kid is about to spill, and he can be done here. Leaving her to…

To do what, exactly? Rampart hadn’t mentioned what he wanted done with her afterwards. Maybe she would be living bait in case the Batch couldn’t be traced from what she knew. And after that…

He nearly scoffs aloud. After that, who cared?

“We don’t do that.” Omega’s voice snaps him out of his distracted thoughts. (Some interrogator he is. Focus.) “Talk to anyone, I mean. Unless we’re doing a one-off job for them. But we don’t have anywhere we go, or anyone we talk to.”

Crosshair’s right brow ticks up at her confident words and steady eye contact with his visor. Of course, the eye contact only makes it easier for him to see the way her pupils dilate with the blatant lie—but still, she’s not entirely terrible at it.

“Alright,” he says, making her mask flicker at the sudden acceptance. “Let’s say you don’t. What are the last few planets you’ve been on?” At an uncertain twist to her lips, he adds, “If your contacts with the outside galaxy are as ‘one-off’ as you say, surely it would do no harm to tell me.”

She considers. Then gives the tiniest hint of a smirk as she replies, “Uh…Daro? Kamino?”

There’s no silencing the exasperated growl that escapes him. Crosshair stands abruptly, ripping his helmet from his head and slamming it down on the metal table. Loudly.

Omega jumps a little, tilting her head back to meet his looming scowl. Crosshair is about ready to punch the wall at the way her expression brightens infintesimally at the sight of his exposed face.

“Listen, kid,” he growls, leaning closer in a way that used to make shorter regs cower. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I am not your friend. This is an Imperial ship. You are here alone. Your Batch doesn’t know where you are, and they are not coming to save you. So I suggest you start using your brain and consider the consequences that may come from failing to cooperate. I don’t think I have to tell you that the Empire does not look kindly on traitors.”

The girl stares up at him, perfectly silent in wake of his speech. Crosshair glares back, letting the coldness of the room and his eyes do their work.

“You’re still part of the Batch.” Her voice is soft enough to be a whisper, familiar brown eyes dropping to the table. “Like I told you on Kamino. And you’re here…so I’m not really alone, am I?”

Once again, Crosshair just stares at her. And despite himself, he can feel the withering nature of his expression falter.

He sits back down slowly, the sudden weariness pressing down on him unrelieved by the physical action. His right hand wanders to a familiar compartment on his belt, sliding a thin wooden stick out from between its brethren and pressing it between his teeth.

Omega is watching him when he looks back to her, eyes holding a silent solemnity that seems to age her past her limited years.

Crosshair opens his mouth, scraping together all the venom and contempt that lives just below the surface. But instead of the scathing words he means to utter, he merely says, “You’re wrong.”

For once, the kid doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring. She’s starting to look worn out. Crosshair keeps her gaze, unwilling to relent despite the prickling sensation writhing beneath his skin.

“No one is going to show up to help you. You have to help yourself. So tell me what you know.”

“How do you know they won’t come?” Blind faith rings out clearly in the question, echoed by the shine of determination in her eyes.

“Because they don’t always do, do they?” He smirks, watching her figure out his meaning. “Even if they could, they won’t. We’re aboard a moving star destroyer. I don’t think even Tech could devise a way to find us in hyperspace.”

“The ship has to stop sometime.” She shrugs, pulling one knee up to her chest and slinging her cuffed arms around it. “And just so you know, I never wanted to stop looking for you. You were always just somewhere too crowded or difficult to reach. Or just…didn’t want to come back.”

“And who told you I was somewhere ‘too crowded’ or ‘too difficult?’” He rolls the toothpick between his teeth, waiting for the answer he already knows.

“…Hunter,” she responds reluctantly.

“Mm.” He pinches the toothpick with two fingers, studying it with mock interest. “Funny. He never said that about any of the immensely dangerous extraction missions we undertook during the war.”

The kid pouts at that. “He never wanted to give up on you either!” she protests, small hands clutching the table’s edge as if to prove her point. “We just…never had the chance until Kamino—”

“When Hunter was the one on the line. In the very Imperial facility he claimed was impossible to breach.” Crosshair scoffs, flicking the toothpick off into the corner of the cell. Omega watches its trajectory with dismayed eyes, slouching forward against her knee. “Face it. They only decide who’s worth rescuing at their own whim. Who knows if they’ll come or not? That’s not something you should have to rely on.”

He leans across the table once more, eyes boring into her own. “Rely on yourself. You are the only one who can help yourself here. Now tell me what you know.”

Heavy silence falls. Omega chews on her lip again, fingers digging into her leg. Crosshair waits, tapping into the patience that comes with watching a target through his sights.

“They’re my family.” He rolls his eyes at the girl’s eventual response. “Our family,” Omega adds with conviction, sitting up a little straighter in her seat. “And they’ll come. I don’t know when…” she pauses as a slight tremor touches the last word. “But if it’s not right away, I know there’s a good reason. They’ll find us.”

“How touching. Hunter’s really gotten you in deep, hasn’t he? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. He will let you down. Sooner, I hope, rather than later. For your sake.”

Omega opens her mouth—likely to vehemently defend Hunter’s honor—but he continues on before she can speak.

“But we’re not here to discuss all of his shortcomings. We’re here so you can tell me where they’ve been. Who they’re working with. And I suggest you talk fast, because no one else is going to give you this many chances before introducing some highly unpleasant forms of motivation.”

Some of the blood drains from the girl’s face at the last statement. She blinks a little too fast, then blurts out, “Why…are you the one questioning me? Why not someone else?”

“Not an answer, try again.”

She makes a somewhat helpless gesture with her cuffed hands. “No one ever really tells me anything—”

“Liar,” he shoots her down, leaning in even closer. “One more chance.”

More color leeches from her skin. She opens her mouth, mutely searching for words. Crosshair can see the wheels turning in her head: One more chance until what?

Until…not much, really. Maybe until he screams in frustration. Or punches something. Or gives an extended lecture on exactly why every one of his brothers is a traitorous di’kut and should not be trusted. He doesn’t really have any ramifications lined up yet.

Ugh. No one had ever told him this job would involve verbally muscling over little girls. He was going to chuck Rampart out the nearest airlock when this was over.

“Speak!” he barks, surprising even himself a little as the word echoes harshly off the walls.

Omega’s shaken eyes snap to his. She swallows, taking in his stormy expression—

—Then narrows her own eyes. Pulls back her shoulders. Juts up her chin.

“No.”

For a split second, Crosshair is certain he’s about to lose it. Then—at the very brink of exploding—he catches himself. Opts instead to clench his jaw, and lean back to his own side of the table. The kid doesn’t look away the whole time, locking them into a staring match. Before either one of them can blink, an idea springs into Crosshair’s mind.

“Fine,” he says, disrupting the ridiculous game by getting to his feet and stalking to the doorway. He gives the control panel a tap, revealing the hall outside. “Then enjoy your cell.”

Omega visibly slouches at the sight of the two troopers who had escorted her earlier stepping into view. Crosshair jerks his head in her direction, letting them grab the kid on either side and lead her toward the door.

“Take some time to think,” he tells her, meeting her unhappy look with impassivity. “Which is worth more—sheltering the people who might not even come for you—or saving your own neck?”

She holds his gaze as the troopers lead her out, but there is no hint of contempt or fear in her features. Instead, her face is curiously open, watching him up until the last second with something odd shining in her eyes.

If Crosshair had to label it…

He shakes his head as the doors slide closed, pressing a tired hand to his temple. No.

The girl is naive. Almost dangerously so. But surely even she could not walk away from such scathing words and ominous threats without feeling her misguided trust begin to strain.

…Right?

He sighs as he slips out into the hallway, making a beeline for the training deck.

He needs to punch something. Then maybe have a strong drink.

Chapter Text

Rampart has issued neither him nor his squad any new orders since their arrival on the Bastion. Crosshair takes this as an unfortunate indicator that he is to continue with his most recent assignment.

There’s nothing appealing about rushing back into that cramped, uncomfortably bright room. He tells himself it’s tactical; that letting the kid stew for a while is the best move. Maybe with a little time, she’ll even come to her senses.

(It’s not because he feels infuriatingly bested by a little girl. That would be absurd.)

Regardless of reason, he doesn’t see her until late the next day, after spending a good portion of it in the ship’s shooting range. Practicing with his rifle has always calmed his nerves in a way nothing else can. There’s something about losing himself to the diligent focus of it; feeling the total control that comes with the light touch of the trigger beneath his finger. Shifting the lines he has named himself for delicately over the target. Waiting, waiting until everything lines up, then…click.

Target eliminated.

He waits inside the room this time, fingers idly drumming next to his discarded helmet on the table. They fall still as the doors slide open.

Instead of stepping forward into the room, Omega is in the process of turning to face the guards, dodging inside before they can reach out to push her. Her tense posture does not ease until the troopers disappear from sight behind the closing doors. Only then does she turn around, blinking against the harsh light.

Dark circles have begun to show under her eyes. The kid’s hair is definitely mussed by now, as if she had been running her fingers through it. But the new angle also illuminates something far more noteworthy—a sight that is enough to make Crosshair pause before he can issue the command for her to sit.

A dark blotch sits just below Omega’s right cheekbone, the discoloration running all the way down to her jaw. A bruise.

Something twists in Crosshair’s gut. It takes him only a few heartbeats to recognize it as disgust.

“Come sit,” he instructs, the flicker of anger carrying over into the harshness of his tone. Omega’s mouth tightens into a frown, but she obeys, resuming their position from the day before.

The proximity allows Crosshair to pick out the finer details of her injury. The coloring seems to suggest it’s likely a day old.

“Hi.” Her voice is a little quieter than before, but she sits up to mimic his straight spine, giving him the hint of a smile.

It’s not returned. “How is your cell?” he asks stiffly, the question lacking the snideness he had originally intended it to possess.

“Ok. I’ve been in worse.” She shrugs. “The one we all got put in on Kamino was better, though. At least I had company in that one.”

“You’ve been in others?”

“Not exactly. But, you know. Observation rooms.” She shivers slightly at the words. Crosshair can guess why. There are many parts of growing up on Kamino that he has chosen to block out.

The sniper curls and straightens his fingers where his hand still rests on the table, somehow already uncomfortable. How did this kid manage to get under his skin so easily?

“I expect it’s given you time to reconsider.” He pulls his face into the stony mask it is meant to be, glaring at her through an invisible scope. “Care to fill me in on some of the details of where you’ve been recently? Who Hunter and the others have been talking to?”

Omega stares. Her shoulders slowly slump forward with a groan, head gravitating toward the table as if she might fall against it. Crosshair’s eyebrow nearly raises at the childish display, but he keeps it in place as she looks back up at him.

“Can we please talk about something else?”

“…You do realize this is an interrogation, correct?”

Her nose wrinkles, elbows coming up to rest on the table. “I don’t like it.”

Crosshair’s lips part, searching around invisible words as he glares with an increasing sense of incredulity. “You’re not supposed to like it. You’re supposed to give me answers so we don’t have to keep wasting time sitting in this kriffing room!”

Of all the reactions to his words, he doesn’t expect her eyes to brighten, or a giggle to escape her lips. “You sound like Tech. Sometimes he mutters bad words like that while he’s working and thinks Hunter isn’t around to hear.”

Crosshair blinks. “I know,” he grumbles, hoping the acknowledgement will shut her up about it.

Unfortunately, it seems to do the exact opposite.

“He tells me stories about you, you know,” the kid blurts, fingers twining tightly together as she pulls her hands back into her lap. “About past missions, and your sharpshooting skills, and how he and you sometimes used to pull pranks on the others. I— I liked the one about reprogramming the ship’s comm indicator to ‘sing’ in binary.” Another trace of a smile flickers across her face, her eyes distant as if seeing someone else before her. “Echo would sometimes listen too—even if he pretended he wasn’t. He told me there were so many stories that he…he hadn’t gotten the chance to hear all of them before you left.”

A slight sheen of moisture dulls the light in her eyes as she finally looks back to him, lips pressing together. Crosshair stays quiet, watching as her hands hesitantly lift up to slide across the table. They stop a few inches from where his left forearm rests, whether from the short length of her own limbs, or her limited sense of self-preservation, he does not know.

“Your stories are…fascinating,” he says, still staring down at the small pair of hands resting before him. “But it’s not the information I need.”

Slowly, her fingers curl in on themselves. Omega’s hands slide back, the cuffs making a harsh scrape as they drag against the table. Her eyes stay fixed to the metal surface. “I don’t know,” she says softly.

Crosshair groans, running his fingers over the stubble on his head. Once again, he finds himself abandoning his seat, claiming the limited space between the bench and the wall to pace.

“You don’t seem to understand,” he says, hands clenching as he pivots to go the other way. “This isn’t a game. There are real stakes on the line. All of which involve your own wellbeing.”

“You’re saying you care about my health and…and stuff?” The kid perks up like a fighter jumping back in the ring.

“I’m saying you should,” Crosshair snaps, arms crossing. “I need this information. If Rampart doesn’t receive it—”

“Then he has less of a chance of finding them.” The kid stands, her eyes sparking with that same damnable determination, and something far more accusatory. “I won’t let him know anything that might put my brothers in danger.”

“Even if it means putting yourself on the line? Torture? Death?”

They are ugly words to spit at a child. But the very real gravity of the situation is not lost on him.

“It’s what they’d do for me.”

Crosshair turns away. “Don’t be so sure,” he mutters.

The sound of a few soft steps betrays her closer proximity. “It’s what they’d do for you, too.”

A low chuckle escapes him. “And yet…” he gestures to the room around them. “Here we are.”

“They tried—”

“Not hard enough.” He whirls, glaring down at her with the full force of the bitterness he harbors for Hunter. For Wrecker, for Tech, for Echo; all of them, for giving up so easily. It’s meant to stop her in her tracks, to put an end to this unyielding cycle of debate with the cold, hard truth: They had never cared enough.

And yet, she just won’t give up.

“You fought us,” Omega points out, chest puffing out. “Every time we got close, you tried to hurt us, or— or got away before we could really talk to you.”

“Of course I fought you!” he explodes, teeth gritting as his hands fly into a gesture of helplessness. “I had that karking chip in my head telling me to. They kept messing with it—doing something to make it stronger; more in control. Then half my head got melted on Bracca, and they had to drill it out! But by then, I didn’t need it to see that Hunter was wrong, or that he didn’t care, or that I wasn’t important enough for him to try hard enough! You all knew I was being kriffed over in the brain, and yet you just left me in that hangar. Alone.” He has to pause, sucking in a quick breath as he glares down at Omega’s shocked expression with every ounce of malice he can summon. “So don’t you dare tell me that he cares. That any of them care.”

The girl blinks rapidly, and he doesn’t need enhanced eyesight to see the tear that slips onto her bruised cheek. Crosshair’s jaw clenches, turning his gaze away to glare into the cell’s corner.

He doesn’t know what he expected, spilling out all his pent up resentment onto this child. She holds none of the impossible answers he wants; cannot stand trial for the crimes of another.

He must have truly lost himself in the moment, for he nearly snaps into a defensive posture as he feels a gentle touch on his armored wrist. He looks down to see Omega looking up at him with damp eyes, mouth curving down over a trembling lower lip.

“Hunter said—he…he regrets it. Every day.” She pauses to take a shaky breath, blinking away more tears. “I heard him when I wasn’t supposed to.” A sniffle, and she swipes beneath her eyes, head bowing. “Sometimes—Sometimes family makes mistakes, too.”

Too many, whispers the void living beneath his skin.

The kid keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, clearly fighting to get control over her tears. Crosshair lets her, his own gaze set on the wall across from him, eyes focused a million miles away.

He doesn’t even realize Omega is still holding his wrist until he shifts to move back towards the table. He takes advantage of the fact by wrapping his own fingers around hers in turn, guiding her back to her seat before reclaiming the one across from her.

“Give me something.” Despite his quiet tone, the words split the lingering silence between them like a knife. “Anything. A planet, a name, a ship…just something.”

Omega is still sniffling, but eventually glances up, arms hunched in close as if longing to wrap them around herself for comfort. She looks very much her age in that moment, watching him through still-watering eyes and biting her lower lip to steady it.

“…Pantora,” she says softly, eyes dropping once more with a sniffle.

Crosshair waits. Then, at her continued silence, prompts, “Which city?”

“I…I think it was called Ro Station.”

He nods once, watching her closely. “What did you do there?”

“We were there for supplies.”

“Not a job?”

“No.”

The hint of a scowl works its way onto Crosshair’s features. “That’s not particularly helpful.”

“You said—”

He holds up a hand, silencing her. Omega blinks, brow furrowing as her head cocks slightly to one side.

He can see how this kid wormed her way into Hunter’s heart so easily. The older clone had always denied it, but he was a sucker for a cute act.

“Who did you barter for supplies with on Pantora?”

“A Gran.” Once again, a hint of unexpected mirth emerges from the depths of her troubled expression. “Hunter sold Echo to him.”

“What?”

“He did!” And this time, she actually smiles, a sharp contrast to the tear tracks still drying on her face. “For a couple of hundred credits, though Echo thought he was worth more.”

“You’re telling me he did business with a slaver.” A vague sense of nausea tugs at him as he utters the words, the fingernails of his left hand biting through his cheap Empire-grade gloves. Had Hunter really stooped so low? Not that the bar had been very high as of late, but kriffing hell.

“No!” she straightens up at that, shaking her head quickly. “They told me about people who do that, and how wrong it is. Echo was disguised as a droid. And he got away afterwards, obviously.”

Ah. Crosshair leans back slightly, not having noticed that he had shifted forward in the first place.

“Obviously. What else went on on Pantora?”

Omega twists her lips to the side in contemplation. She eyes Crosshair, and he can tell she is internally weighing the costs of telling him more. She must decide that whatever she is about to share is harmless enough, because she gives a small shrug. “There was a bounty hunter.”

“Looking to turn all of you in to the Empire?”

“Not…exactly.” She fidgets a little, trying to pick at the cuffs on her wrists. Idly, Crosshair wonders if anyone has bothered to remove them since she arrived. “Sh—They were looking for me.”

Crosshair’s brow ticks up at that. “Just you specifically?”

A nod. “The Kaminoans hired them. They wanted me because Hunter said I was… ‘special.’” Her nose wrinkles at that. “I think it had something to do with me having the DNA closest to the Prime. It…doesn’t really matter now, though. Kamino’s gone.”

The sniper doesn’t reply to that, considering her words for a moment before he speaks again. “What was the name of this bounty hunter?”

“I don’t know.” She looks away, but he doesn’t need to see her eyes to know she’s lying. Maybe not so good at it after all.

“Of course you don’t,” he grumbles. “Then tell me something you do.”

And, surprisingly, she does. There’s no prying needed to get her to tell the full story of a sewer-to-rooftop chase, or the Batch’s team effort to track her down. There’s some details obviously excluded—such as the bounty hunter’s appearance beyond “tall and wearing a helmet”—but he gets the general picture.

Omega’s casual add-on of, “And then later, that one had to fight the other one that shot Hunter and took me to an abandoned cloning facility,” naturally leads into another story. One during which he has to try hard not to let any vindictive smirks break through at the thought of Hunter having to deal with a blaster wound while his own skin had been burning beyond agony in the aftermath of the ion engine.

All of it is as vaguely interesting as it is completely and utterly useless. Crosshair bites back a sigh. The kid has given him nothing worth reporting back to Rampart—the Admiral wouldn’t care less that the longnecks had apparently been trying to hunt her down behind the Empire’s back—but at least she seems to be opening up.

He just hopes she’ll keep doing it until he can get something workable out of her. For now, he stands, gesturing for her to do the same.

Although not well-versed in the matter, common sense tells him standard interrogation procedure would dictate that the subject be questioned more as they became increasingly tired. The kid looks just that—worn out and less attentive in wake of the long period they’ve spent in this room. On the other hand, there’s nothing standard about this entire situation, and Crosshair is feeling strangely exhausted himself—like Omega hadn’t been the only one under the spotlight.

Kriff standard protocol. He’ll get more out of her tomorrow.

Omega sends him a surprised look when he remains by her side as the doors part. He doesn’t miss the way she shrinks back a little at the sight of the two troopers waiting outside. Helmet now firmly in place, Crosshair allows himself a sneer.

“Dismissed,” he barks as the men jolt to attention from where they had been slouching. The troopers exchange a glance—then salute, turning and marching away down the hall.

Crosshair watches them go with a narrowed glance, then swiftly jerks his attention back to Omega as the kid takes a tentative step into the corridor, peering down it both ways.

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?” He gives her a nudge in the right direction, moving them toward the detention block. “Come on. Don’t get any ideas.”

Her head swivels about like a Toydarian Night Hawk as they walk, as if the interior of a star destroyer holds the most fascinating sights imaginable. “Is that an airlock?” she gestures toward a hatch in the wall they just passed.

“No. Airlocks always have warning lights. Those are maintenance tunnels.” He gives her another bump forward as her pace slows, squinting at the hatch as if expecting said lights to pop into existence.

“Huh. You’ll have to show me sometime.” A hint of that persistent brightness traces her words, like the idea could somehow be exciting.

“If I’m showing you to an airlock, then I assure you, the circumstances will not be in your favor.” Crosshair smirks beneath his helmet.

Omega either ignores his jab, or its meaning goes right over her head. Not a difficult feat, given how it only comes up a short distance above his hip. Distantly, Crosshair thinks he can just remember being that size. There aren’t many pleasant memories to accompany that thought.

They reach the detention block, and he scans his code cylinder, dismissing the guard’s offer to ‘escort the prisoner back to her cell.’ Each of the kid’s steps seem to drag more weight behind them as the two clones are caught in the red glow of the ray shields lining the short hall. Besides the pair’s footsteps, the low hum of their energy is the only sound to disrupt the tomb-like silence.

Their journey ends before the only cell with its shield lowered. Omega’s shoulders slump at the sight of it. She turns, looking up to him with sad tooka eyes.

“Do I have to go back in there…?” she asks, morose tone matching her expression.

Crosshair gives her a look. Your tricks may work on Hunter, but they won’t on me.

Omega heaves a sigh, but slowly plods down the three steps in the cell, watching over her shoulder as he activates the ray shield. Once she’s sealed inside, Crosshair turns, fully intending to leave without another word.

The sudden cry of “Wait!” as he is about to disappear from view of her cell should not stop him. But really, there have been a lot of other shoulds he has failed to fulfill lately.

A side-eye in her direction, and Omega hops up closer to the shield, hands hovering dangerously close to touching the energy. Crosshair almost tells her to stop, but catches himself. He’s already pausing to listen to a prisoner’s pleas. Anything more won’t do his reputation any favors.

“When will you be back?” she asks, voice dropping back down to that soft, pitiful tone.

The sniper turns his gaze back forward, watching the hallway’s end. “Tomorrow, I should expect. Try to think up some answers in the meantime. Useful ones.”

And with that, he steps from her sight, leaving the brig behind, but not the pestering thoughts of its occupant, and all that had been said that day.

Chapter Text

The sound of raucous laughter greets him when he enters the barracks that night. His squadmates have clustered in the middle of the room, overturned crates creating a makeshift table that is strewn with Sabacc cards and credits. ES-10 has apparently returned from medbay, sitting stiffly between 07 and 11 with a grin on his face.

They don’t notice their Commander’s entrance until the doors whoosh shut behind him. Unhelmeted heads turn with wary expressions, a hush falling over the room. It doesn’t take a sharpshooter’s eye to see ES-08’s clumsy attempt at stowing a half-empty bottle behind her.

Crosshair lets them stew for a moment, blank visor disguising any hint of his reaction. Then he slowly continues forward, stalking around their little setup and heading for his own bunk without a word.

He can feel the collective sigh of relief as he turns his back on them, leaning his rifle against the wall and beginning to pry off a few bits and pieces of his armor. The volume in the room creeps back up as he sits on his bunk’s edge, busying himself with a communique on his datapad.

It’s a familiar feeling, letting the chatter ebb away into one continuous stream that flows through the barracks. One that creates a slight pull between his brows at the way the sounds just don’t quite blend right.

He has always found safisfaction in silence and solitude. Even during his short childhood, when he used to cram himself into the crawl space of vents in order to get a moment alone. But there is a small part of him—one he can’t quite seem to kill—that still expects the din of arguing voices and lively conversation to inevitably flood around him during the day. He would not say he relished it by any means—but it is engrained. Thoroughly.

Those sounds are right here, surrounding him now. The voices of these strangers simply do not scratch the itch.

He is preoccupied enough in his thoughts that he nearly misses a sudden lull in the conversation. His shoulders have barely had the chance to tense when a voice calls out, “Hey, Commander!”

Crosshair lifts only his eyes from his datapad. ES-10 wavers for a second; then, seeing that he is not going to verbally respond, pulls on a smirk. “How’s it been going with that rebel kid?”

“She looked easy to crack,” ES-08 chimes in, something sharp in her eyes as they lock with Crosshair’s. “Few minutes with a probe droid, and I bet she’d squeal like a Gamorrean.”

A few chuckles run around the table. Crosshair still just stares, taking in the slight twitch in 08’s facial muscles as the silence drags on past the point of comfort.

“You have yet to report for duty, trooper.” He lets his attention stay nailed to her for several heartbeats longer, then turns it back to 10. The narrowed gaze the man had been shooting him melds away. He abruptly jerks up to his feet, legs unsteady thanks to the alcohol as he brings a hand to his temple.

“Reporting for duty after medical leave, Sir.”

Crosshair allows himself to absorb the poorly concealed disgust flashing in the man’s eyes. It shines in a different way in all of their eyes; each its own unique blend of venom. Unfortunately for them, he happens to have a lifetime’s worth of experience being hated for what he is.

“Acknowledged,” the sniper sneers, and returns to his datapad. Out of his peripheral vision, he sees the man lower himself back down to join his comrades, silently fuming.

Crosshair taps over to the next message, soaking in the resentment he can feel being directed at him from every corner of the room.

Some things never changed.

“Ryloth.”

“We already know about that. I was there.”

“…Raxus?”

“I read the report.” Crosshair balances a toothpick between his thumb and third finger, testing its strength as he presses down with his index finger. “Too occupied to house any sort of base. Unless you’re going to tell me that runaway Senator has been organizing some sort of rebellion.” He scoffs at the thought. The man’s holofile had suggested the only running of something he might be doing was into the ground. It took a particular kind of stupidity to disavow the Empire in front of your entire planet.

“No. But Wrecker told me he got to ride an AT-TE through the streets.” Omega gives a tired grin. “It sounded really cool.”

“Yes, he would think driving an assault vehicle through civillian terrain was the height of excitement.” He pops the toothpick back between his teeth, rolling it to one corner of his mouth, then the other. The kid’s eyes track its movement like she’s watching a Limmie match. “Are you saying you weren’t there?”

A stormcloud touches her features. “Oh, no, I wasn’t. Hunter insisted I get left behind at—”

Abruptly, her jaw snaps shut. A smirk touches Crosshair’s lips as he jabs the toothpick toward her.

“You do have allies. Who are they?”

“I was going to say ‘the ship,’” she rushes, but the hints of panic that invade her expression speak volumes.

“Hm.” He chews the slim piece of wood, lack of reply conveying his belief in that.

She waits a moment, still nervous. “Why…Why would you assume I was going to say anywhere besides the ship?”

“Because Hunter wouldn’t leave his precious little sister without a babysitter.” He allows himself a moment to enjoy the embarrassed grimace that makes its way onto her face. “Or at least I thought he would. Where was he on Ipoth?”

She opens her mouth to reply—then closes it again. Starting to clam up, then. Great.

“We didn’t find them, you know,” he states boredly, shifting his legs beneath the table. “Or the Marauder.”

He had read up on those reports, too. There had been remains of plenty of clone troopers identified amid the piles of Ipothian corpses in the base’s rubble, but none had matched any of the distinctive features of the Batch. Crosshair isn’t sure where his former brothers are, but he can see the same question that has run through his mind a dozen times reflected in the kid’s eyes: Why weren’t they showing up here?

Because as much as he had lectured her about being the only one to save herself…he hadn’t fully believed it. He could recall perfectly the lingering taste of saltwater in his mouth and the glare of fire reflecting off waves as all of them panicked at the kid’s disappearance below Kamino’s surface. Hunter had been ready to throw himself under, accepting the possibility that he might never resurface if it meant a shot at getting her out of there alive.

He had known that kind of blind loyalty, once. It wasn’t easy to break. Not toward him, of course…but the child seated across from him seemed like a very different matter.

“Are we…in hyperspace right now?” Her tentative question brings him out of the lull of his thoughts.

“No.” They had dropped out around two hours ago. Picking up a few troops and fuel at some backwater-turned-convenient-port. She must have noticed the absence of the hyperdrive’s omnipresent hum. He can see the flicker of hope—and the disappointment—the information brings.

They’re sitting still. The perfect opportunity for a squad of idiots to sneak onboard with a borderline suicidal plan.

I know you can find us, Tech. Why haven’t you?

“Do you…” Omega clears her throat. Crosshair waits, watching as whatever question she had been about to ask dies on her tongue.

“…Back to our earlier conversation,” he says, still observing her closely. “How long did you have to wait while they were out razing buildings on Raxus?”

“A few hours.” Her eyes narrow right back at him like some distorted mirror. “What about you? What were you up to while we were there?”

“Wishing I could claw off my own charred skin in medbay.” He gives her a nasty grin. “What did you occupy yourself with during those hours?”

The kid blinks, but to her credit, doesn’t back down. “Playing a game. Apparently I’m good at strategy.”

“Are you?” He crosses his arms, leaning forward. “And what game gave you such a delightful revelation?”

“Uh- Tattooine Flips,” she throws out. Unfortunately for her, it yields yet another victorious gleam in her opponent’s eye.

“How incredible,” Crosshair drawls, “That you managed to devise a strategy for a game based purely on luck.”

He can see Omega grow flustered, but she tries to hide it by crossing her own arms. Crosshair had uncuffed her earlier, letting her get back some range of motion in the hopes it would loosen her tongue a bit more. Before she can defend herself, he plows on, smirk growing as things begin to fall into place.

“Come to think of it, the most popular strategy-based game—which also happens to be Hunter’s favorite—is Dejarik. A pastime that he only ever got to play in rare moments between missions. Usually in bars, where they have the boards.”

The kid’s face starts to lose some of its blood, and he knows he’s right on the money.

“That would explain where they keep finding all those ‘odd jobs.’ Plenty of low lifes looking to recruit. Care to narrow the scope? Give me a name?”

Omega swallows. “I never said it was Dejarik.”

“Didn’t have to. I can read it on your little face.”

“How do you know that’s not just part of my strategy?” She raises her eyebrows, still desperately fighting off unease.

That surprises a huff out of him. “Cute. But no matter what tentative skills you might show on a holoboard, there’s no denying your Sabacc face is terrible.”

“They’ve never taken me anywhere like that. And it wasn’t Dejarik,” she mutters.

“Whatever you say.” He gives the toothpick another roll. The kid is starting to look like a kicked tooka, huddled in on herself with downcast eyes. It probably makes her a prime target to squeeze the last few drops of information from, but…maybe a momentary distraction would serve better use first. Weave a false sense of security before going in for the kill.

“Who gave you that bruise?”

Her eyes dart back up, one hand awkwardly smacking over the mark as if that would erase it from his mind.

“N-no one.”

He lifts a brow. “‘No one’ gave you a palm-shaped whack on the face.”

“I tripped on the way here.” If possible, she curls into herself a little bit more, refusing to meet his eyes. Crosshair’s brows twitch together as he reads the emotion displayed in her posture.

Shame.

“Tripped, and someone smacked you for it.” No one ever said he was particularly gifted with verbal tact. “Was it one of the TKs that escorted you from your cell?”

A wince. Then a reluctant nod.

Despite having already known the answer, he isn’t quite sure how to react to it. It feels like there should be something to say, but…what? An apology?

“I see,” is all he can come up with. And then the silence starts to drag on. And on.

“…Why do you like working for the Empire?” Her voice is so small, he nearly has to strain his ears to hear it.

“I’ve told you, I’m the one who asks the questions,” he glares, though the words lack any true heat. The sniper finds himself pausing, actually considering the question. “It’s what the Republic has naturally transformed into. There’s no more war. This is what we spent all those years fighting for.”

“So you just stay because it’s kind of like what you’ve always done?” She looks up from where she’s leaned her folded arms across the table. “Not because you agree with it.”

“I do agree with it. Why do you think I’m wearing this ugly karking armor?” He gestures down to the unmarred black, the lack of insignias or personalization speaking for itself. The Empire frowns on such things. Not that he has anything to identify with, anyway.

“So you think it’s the right thing to do.”

His mouth curls into a thin line. “You’re just trying to stall for time. Or annoy me to death.”

“A good strategy is one the other person can’t figure out,” she says, a cheeky gleam finding its way into her eye. Her recovery time definitely wasn’t lacking.

“Putting yourself closer to risk is not a smart one, I can assure you that.”

“I’m not at risk.”

Kriffing hell, they’d already been down this road a dozen times. “Are you still that blind to your surroundings?”

“With all the Imperials, yeah.” She ignores his response, folding her hands together. “Not with you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am an Imperial.”

“You call yourself one, but you don’t act like them.”

The sniper gives a dark chuckle. “You haven’t been around to witness every moment of my career.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve spent a lot of time around you these last few days.” She shuffles forward, resting her chin on her hands.

“Then pray tell, what is the distinguishing difference between me and ‘real’ Imperials?”

“You don’t want to hurt people. Sometimes you pretend like you do…but you don’t.”

Crosshair refuses to let his cold mask crack. “I shot Wrecker. You were there.”

“In the shoulder. Tech said you only did it to try to incap-icitite him. And he forgives you.”

“‘Incapacitate,’” he corrects, forcing himself to ignore the small spark of surprise that flares at hearing that last bit. It sure hadn’t seemed that way on Kamino. “And it still more than counts.”

“You didn’t hurt Hunter when you captured him.”

“Less so than he deserved.” He gives a wolfish smile at that. “But have they failed to tell you about all the people I’ve gunned down? I assure you, I have no more qualms than any other Imperial about blasting my way through a few victims to get what I want. Just ask those Ipothians you were so bent on helping.”

“That’s because you’re still pretending,” she states like it’s a matter of fact. “It’s wrong that you hurt those people…but you can be good in the future.”

He waves an irritated hand. “At what point do you draw the line between ‘pretending’ and owning up to the fact that this is what I’ve chosen to be?”

“You haven’t hurt me.”

Yet again, she’s managed to find just the right words to bring his retaliations to a crashing halt.

“I’m standing in the way of finding out where Hunter, Echo, Tech, and Wrecker are,” she continues. “But all you’ve done is ask questions, not…actually do anything.”

“I wouldn’t go giving me any ideas.” Even to his own ears, the reply sounds weak.

The kid’s solemn expression flickers, just long enough for him to catch the trace of a small, triumphant smile from across the table.

And in that moment, he realizes that maybe—just maybe—she is some kind of strategist. The most irritating, absurd type possible.

Against his will, the corner of his mouth twitches. The gesture is reflected back to him unabashedly.

“Getting back on subject…” he begins, and before he knows it, they’re diving deep into the next round.

For all their mental gymnastics, he doesn’t end up getting a name out of the kid. She dodges around the questions, and he lets himself chase her, observing the webs of varying intricacies she’s able to weave with her lies and diversions.

He can sense relief from her when he eventually calls it quits. Most of it is probably because of her continuing fatigue, but the way her shoulders slump back as they rise from their seats makes him suspect that some of it is due to her maintained silence in regards to the Batch.

There’s only so much more pushing it’s going to take, Crosshair reminds himself as he finds himself dragging a decidedly-less-animated kid back to her cell. He already has a lead. One that’s incredibly vague on its own, of course—but that isn’t what is important. The kid is talking. He just has to keep her that way long enough for her to slip up again.

Throughout the return journey to her cell, Omega’s gaze wanders between staying forward or dropping to the floor. The former seems to occur more often as they pass other troopers in the hall, almost like she thinks looking down will make her a weaker target. In their eyes, she’s probably not wrong.

The sniper anticipates more chatter now that they’re free from the interrogation room, but she doesn’t make a peep the whole way. That is, until he’s sealing her back behind crackling scarlet once more.

“When will you be back?” She repeats from the day before, arms curling in close to herself. Her wrists are re-fitted with the durasteel cuffs, a task he had just performed without once catching her eye.

“…Soon,” Crosshair alters his reply this time. Then he turns, leaving before she can say anything more.

His response doesn’t turn out to be completely true—not likely from a child’s perspective, anyway—because he ends up going the entirety of the next day shift without seeing her. It’s not really intentional; his schedule just happens to be swamped with a littany of mundane and annoying duties. A debriefing with his squad, subsequent training and testing of their skills as a unit, a mandatory Command assembly that drags on far longer than it has any right to, and an albeit-briefer-but-no-less-annoying meeting with Rampart.

(“No, Sir,” he replies, an air of confidence that feels purely theatrical drawn across his shoulders, “Nothing worth reporting yet. But the girl is close to breaking. I’ll have an answer within the next few rotations.”)

The only response to his not-quite-bluff had been narrowed eyes and a brief nod—suspiciously devoid of further questions or threats, but he would take it.

Now, at around 22:00, he’s dragging himself back to the barracks, mentally drained after catching up on several missions’ worth of reports. (One of the many joys of Command—twice the responsibility and ten times the flimsiwork.) It’s only as he’s entering the turbolift that he realizes he somehow had never gotten around to bringing the kid out for another interrogation today.

The sniper waits until the doors seal him in solitude to let his shoulders drop, biting back a groan as he shuts his eyes over the beginnings of a headache. A new corridor yawns before him when he opens them again. He’s one step away from continuing on toward the promise of a hard bunk and restless dreams when he hesitates, some invisible force making him pause.

A hand comes up to rub over his visor. Before he can stop to think, he’s taking a step back into the turbolift, and hitting the button for a different deck level.

He listens to the soft whir of mechanics as the lift descends deeper into the ship. The corridor he is admitted to this time is narrower and slightly dimmer than the last. Colder, too, he notes as the drop in temperature creeps through the seams in his armor. This part of the ship doesn’t get as much life support function. A design which is almost certainly not by coincidence—less foot traffic plus the added benefit of making the brig more uncomfortable provided plenty of reason to neglect it in such a way. Regardless of intent, he finds the lower light level a welcome reprieve on tired eyes.

Some luck must still be with him today, because the trooper on guard lets him into the cellblock without hassle. He meanders down the brig’s hall at a relaxed pace, taking a full breath that is only meant to soothe the pain in his temples, not any inexplicable nerves.

When he reaches the right rayshield, it is to stumble on an unexpected sight.

Instead of being asleep, the kid is sitting up. She’s tucked into a little ball on the bench with her cuffed hands circled over to hug her knees. Even through the distortion of the ray shield, he can see her eyes are glassy and unfocused, staring at the wall across from her blankly.

Crosshair has approached silently enough that she has not yet noticed him. For a moment, he hovers.

Just leave, part of him urges.

Why? Scared of a little girl? taunts another.

This is a waste of time.

“Does Hunter always let you stay up so late?” His low question interrupts his own inner debate. Across from him, Omega jumps, turning her head quickly enough to cause a crick. Crosshair watches as her tired face lights up, arms lifting off of her knees as she jumps to her feet. Or tries to, anyway. It’s more of an uncoordinated wobble as she stands, swaying slightly and blinking like she’s seeing stars. His eyes narrow as she scampers up to the shield, peering out at him.

“Crosshair! I- I wasn’t sure when you were coming back.” Her excited tone wavers, the unspoken ‘if’ that almost replaced ‘when’ ringing out all too clearly.

The sniper crosses his arms. “Long day,” he says stiffly, eyes shifting off to the side despite the shielding of his helmet.

Omega chews on her lip, but nods, staring at a spot on his shoulder. Once again, she looks worse for the wear since yesterday. The shadows beneath her eyes have darkened, a sharp contrast against the bleak palor of her skin. He can’t help but be reminded of tiny, exhausted figures stumbling from a training arena.

Crosshair studies her for another moment, waiting. When she doesn’t say anything, he reaches out, tapping the ray shield off.

As usual, the girl perks up from where she had started to droop, eyes casting a longing glance at the hallway beyond. Before she can do anything foolish—not that he’d have the slightest hint of trouble stopping her—he ducks inside, and taps his code cylinder on the scanner on the interior wall. The rayshield flashes back up with a snap.

Omega throws him a sour look, though it seems halfhearted at best. She wanders back over to the bench, climbing up and tucking her knees into her chest once more.

Crosshair takes the opportunity to glance around the sparse interior of her cell. It has all the basic checkmarks: cramped, cold, dark. Something on the floor near the entryway catches his eye.

“You haven’t eaten.”

Omega looks over at the tray he’s indicating with a shaky shrug. “‘m not hungry.”

Crosshair reaches up, removing his helmet and setting it aside. He snatches the tray up in the same movement, stalking over to where the kid sits and shoving it toward her.

“Eat.”

Omega lifts her head from where she had planted her chin on her knees, looking up at him questioningly.

“I don’t care if you’re ‘not hungry,’” he glares. “Eat.”

A sigh. “I see why the others just call you ‘Cross’ sometimes.”

“You’re a lot less humorous than you think.”

She wrinkles her nose at him, but reaches out and accepts the tray, dropping her legs down to set it on her lap. They’re only just long enough to touch the floor, Crosshair notes numbly. Then he sees the face she’s making at the basic nutrient bars and chunky grey slime on the tray, and promptly scowls.

“Used to something fancier?”

“No. I like ration bars.” She gives the slime a poke, grimacing. “I just don’t want any right now.”

Crosshair is about to give another bitter retort, but then he finds himself biting his tongue as he looks at her. Really looks at her.

She’s a kid. (How astute.) Nervous and exhausted and waiting for the worst. Probably stressed out of her mind, despite the shields she puts up to hide it.

…Now where has he heard that before?

The plastoid of his armor makes a dull clang against the metal of the bench as he sits beside her. Not too close, mind you—but close enough to loom over her with some menace.

“You have to eat if you want to keep your strength up. That means not keeling over the next time you stand up, because you sure do look like it now.” Somewhere in the background, he’s certain he can hear his subconscious laughing at him.

Omega looks between him and the food. “I thought you wouldn’t care about that.”

Crosshair rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you to use common sense. That’s not exactly caring.”

The kid bites the inside of her lip, but this time it’s to hide a smile. “Thank you,” she says softly.

He looks away with a grumble. She needs to be in good shape if she’s going to keep responding during interrogation. Other than that, he doesn’t really give a kriff. He never signed up for babysitting.

The bar’s wrapper crinkles as the kid takes a few tentative bites. She swallows with a wince. Automatically, he reaches over and plucks up the water canteen that rests in the tray’s corner, pressing it into her free hand. It’s probably not necessary—an old habit from eating with Wrecker, who had a tendency to forget to take reserved sips before he started hacking from the bars’ dryness.

Omega’s eyes widen a little, but she gives him a nod of thanks, carefully sipping the water left in the canteen. He supposes she already drank half earlier. It’s easier to do without food than it is with water.

They sit in silence, Omega absorbed in the task of eating while Crosshair wanders unfocused eyes across the rest of the cell. He’s not even aware that he’s drifted so completely into thought until there’s a quiet clatter from Omega setting the mostly-emptied tray back on the floor. The grey sludge remains untouched, but he can’t exactly begrudge her that. He knows from experience how foul it tastes.

The kid returns to her seat on his left. It’s not lost on him the way she scoots closer this time, so that he’s just within her limited arm’s reach. There’s nothing terribly bothersome about it, though, so he doesn’t comment, opting instead to let his tired mind begin to blur with half-formed thoughts once again.

He probably should have gotten up and left by now…

“Crosshair? Have you…found anything about the others?”

He suppresses a sigh. “No.”

“Ok.” There’s no mistaking the hint of relief in her voice. The look in her eyes, however, tells a different story. Crosshair looks back to the wall as something buried deep inside echoes the same forlorn tone.

Omega stifles a yawn, slumping back against the wall behind them. Her head tilts to her right shoulder, messy blonde hair falling in her eyes. “Why’d you come visit me in here this time?”

One armored shoulder twitches up in a shrug. “I said I’d be back soon, not where we would meet.”

‘Meet.’ His words sound almost as painfully naive as hers.

“Oh. Doesn’t really answer the question, though.” Another yawn. She gives a slow blink, like the task of keeping her eyes open is growing harder. He hasn’t seen someone go from being alert to crashing so fast in a while. Not since…

Crosshair leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I had other things to attend to today. Though I assumed you wouldn’t be so eager at the thought of being dragged into another interrogation in the middle of the night.”

“It’s night?” Her words are slurring a little now. The older clone’s brow furrows.

She didn’t know what time of day it was? He had asked her about being up late just a few moments ago.

As if reading his thoughts, she murmurs, “I tried counting the hours, but… I lost count.”

“Have you been sleeping?” Crosshair hears himself ask.

This time, the response takes so long that he peers over to make sure she’s still awake. “Tried…” She mumbles.

Kriff. No wonder she looks like hell. He realizes he should have known before. Or maybe he had known deep down and just…not wanted to acknowledge it.

She certainly looks close to falling asleep now. Crosshair has to scoot over an inch as Omega finally tucks her legs up to lie on her side. A few locks of tufty golden hair brush against the armor of his thigh as she curls into a fetal position. She rests her head on the cold, unrelenting slab of metal beneath them, and finally lets her eyes slide shut.

Crosshair remains still as a statue, not quite able to move. He feels like he’s intruding somehow, staring down at the kid in such a state of vulnerability. And yet, she’s the one who’s apparently deemed it safe enough to fall asleep right beside him.

Crosshair shakes his head. Hunter really needed to teach her a few lessons on trust. She shouldn’t be putting it in someone like him.

…Would he ever really hurt her, though?

He slams a mental door on that thought before it can progress any further. Fidgets a little with his cheap Imperial gloves. Wonders why he’s still sitting here.

A small shiver at his side draws his attention back to the subject of his thoughts. Omega’s brow is furrowing, cuffed hands shifting forward in her sleep. Crosshair’s expression twists into something akin to a grimace as her eyes flicker dangerously close to reopening. The aimless movements of her hands almost make it seem like she’s searching for something. Judging by the nearly unintelligible mumble that escapes her lips, his guess isn’t too far off.

“…Go back to sleep,” he states quietly. It’s nothing close to what—or rather, who—she’s asking for, but it seems to have some effect. Omega makes another small noise, but gradually settles down into stillness.

Crosshair stares for only a moment longer, barbed confusion wrapping its way around a new yet familiar sensation growing in his chest. Then he stands, moving to retrieve his helmet where he set it on the floor. His code cylinder finds its own way into his hand as he lets himself out, ducking into the hall.

There is no room for confusion. No room for weakness, or hesitation, or…this. He tells himself as much the whole trip back to the barracks, clutching to the resolve he has chosen like it’s the last shield between himself and a charging grenade.

The feeling persists.

Chapter Text

Rusting metal beneath his feet. Gloom that clings to the walls like cobwebs in the breeze, shifting the shroud of what he can and cannot see.

Katarn plates creaking in the shadows. Eyes that pierce, but not deep enough.

“It’s the chip.”

Yes. Of course it is. He wants to scream it as loud as his lungs will allow. Instead, his lips part, and the thing that is both him and not speaks.

“Aim for the kid.”

The rifle in his hands shifts into position. Anger. Hatred. And so much—

If you know, why am I still here?

The darkness weaves between them, building its crushing walls up on all sides. He can’t see clearly enough. It’s not right; he has to see.

Help me.

“No.”

Finger on the trigger.

You knew.

“You didn’t give us a choice.”

Footsteps fading. The roar of an engine swallowed up by lapping waves.

“Crosshair…”

One figure left.

“Crosshair, please.”

Blistering heat that presses control back into his own hands. Now, it’s just him. Now, he has a—

“I have to do this.”

“I-I can’t tell you.”

Hands shackled, head bowed.

Salt on his tongue. Seaspray from over the platform’s edge? No… Its stinging chill sticks to his skin, making him shiver against the cool air.

“Crosshair, I- You’re my brother. Please stop hurting me.”

Stop making me choose.

“I don’t care.”

“That’s not true,” she whispers, shuddering against the water droplets that run down her own face. “Tell me- tell me that’s not true!”

“I don’t want this,” he manages to choke out.

“Don’t want what?” another voice asks from his right, the familiarity of it making him whirl to try to tear apart the shadows surrounding them. They’re only growing darker; descending around them like great, monsterous wings.

His teeth grit, eyes squeezing shut as his hand instinctively lands on his scarred temple. The salt is making it burn, and he’s sure he can just hear—

Silence.

His eyes open.

For a moment, he lies perfectly still, staring at the blank grey of the bunk above. Enjoys the privilege of drawing in a slow, shaky breath. No water, no shadows, no pleading.

One hand scrubs over his face as he rolls over to climb to his feet.

The dream fades slower than usual, each detail running through his mind as he kits up. His hand lingers on his left gauntlet after he snaps it on, thumb sitting just on the edge of his comm unit. A shift, and it traces over a few distinctive digits on the keypad.

He scoffs, dropping his forearm and grabbing up his deecee as he resumes going through the motions of preparing for the day.

A short time later, he takes up his usual seat in the mess hall, forcing down a few forkfuls of the green paste they’re serving up for breakfast. He washes it down with the bitter taste of ration-grade caf, and doesn’t think of the fancy blends Echo used to waste a ridiculous amount of his credits on. It had just been another one of the dozens of impractical quirks that had sprouted up on the Marauder; each contributed by a different person but ultimately adding up to turn the ship into…something unique.

Did it still look the same now? Or had it changed as much as everything else? Were his own marks still there, or had every trace been wiped clean?

…Had the kid ever had the chance to make her own?

His cup hits the table hard enough to make the remaining liquid slosh inside. The vacancy of the surrounding seats proves to be his ally as a frustrated sigh escapes him.

The sniper’s eyes track over to give the chrono display on the mess’s far side a calculating glance. They then shift down to where his squad has assembled at their own table beneath it.

Yesterday’s drills had only just gone above meeting acceptable levels. That gives him plenty of excuse for the merciless pace he pushes all of them at on the training deck a few moments later. He doesn’t hold back from doling out criticism or punishments, either—a fact which makes the mutinous glares he receives become more and more obvious throughout.

He doesn’t care. They’re supposed to be elite soldiers. It’s not his fault if they’re sorely lacking in skill.

He’s in the process of dodging ES-08’s fists during a sparring match when his commlink goes off. Crosshair lifts a halting hand, barely sidestepping in time to avoid an incoming blow that continues on regardless. He sends the trooper a narrowed look as she finally stops, catching his breath and waiting until she’s ducking out of the ring before answering it.

“Commander.” The sound of Rampart’s voice causes the hand swiping across his brow to freeze.

“Sir.”

“Report to my ready room.” Then, just when he can already feel a low drop in his stomach—“And bring the girl.”

Kriff. He’d known yesterday’s encounter had been far too easy. And now here he is, trying to find his footing when he should have been ten steps ahead.

“Sir, yes Sir.”

Crosshair taps the channel shut, then turns, vaulting out of the ring to collect his gear. “Dismissed,” he calls over to his squad without a second glance.

The weight in his chest feels like someone had pinned him in the ring and never gotten around to letting him up. He makes a quick stop in the barracks for a sonic shower (delaying, delaying, his mind chants), before heading for the detention block.

“What’s wrong?” are the first words out of Omega’s mouth when he appears outside her cell.

His only response is to lower the shield. The kid’s brow furrows—but she steps out to follow his lead.

Crosshair can sense her confusion growing as they take the same route as before, only to pass the room they usually enter. Omega turns to him with questioning eyes as they stop before a turbolift. The sniper meets her eye briefly, then lifts his visor straight ahead once more.

It’s only when they step inside that she asks, “Are we…going back to him?”

Crosshair hits the control panel. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her give the tiniest sway. He nearly reaches out to steady her, but she straightens on her own.

The anticipation only heightens when they step out onto a deck that is not the bridge. He gives her a nudge forward, and they keep walking, passing more officers and higher-ranking individuals than the decks below. The pair receives a few disdainful glances, some openly sneering at the child in their midst.

“Don’t be too quiet, but don’t talk too much,” Crosshair mutters under his breath as he catches sight of the seemingly innocuous door waiting for them down the hall. “You have to tell him something.”

Her shoulders tense. There are questions she wants to ask, but their destination is getting closer and closer.

“And above all else,” he hisses, sending a narrowed glance at an officer passing them, “Don’t contradict anything I say.”

Then they’re pausing on the threshold. The door slides open, and Crosshair gives her a shove inside, following close behind.

Rampart is already standing behind his half-moon desk, pretending to examine one of the knick knacks adorning the shelves lining the wall.

“CT-9904. How kind of you to spare the time.” He sets the object down. “And our honored guest, of course. How have you been faring, Omega?”

Although Crosshair doesn’t have the best view of her expression, he recognizes the bristle that runs through the kid just fine.

Rampart raises a brow. “Hm. I thought you’d be feeling more conversational by now. You appear to be doing remarkably well.” His eyes shift pointedly to Crosshair.

Apart from the bruise, there’s not a single mark on Omega. Sure, she looks exhausted enough to pass out at any given moment, but not…tortured.

He’s been caught in a lie.

“You two have had the extended privilege of enjoying each other’s company for several days now,” Rampart makes his way out from behind the desk, rubbing dust off his fingers. “I heard you’ve even opened up about several of your recent ordeals. You and your…’brothers’ have been very busy since they deserted from the Empire.”

No reply.

“However, your little chats haven’t quite given us what we need to help you.”

At that, a soft sound finally leaves Omega.

A scoff.

Rampart’s eyes narrow. “I know it goes against what most of your brothers have told you, but…” And here, his eyes flicker back up to Crosshair in a way that makes the sniper’s skin crawl. “Commander Crosshair is your brother too, is he not?”

His fingers twitch.

“He is.” Omega utters the words like they’re an unbreakable defense.

“He serves the Empire,” Rampart points out. “Do you know why?”

There’s a dull pounding in his ears.

“Tell her.”

“Because the Empire is right.”

The Admiral stares, as if waiting for more. “Yes,” he continues eventually. “Because the Empire is right. We are bringing peace and security to the galaxy. Peace and security that your ‘brothers’ don’t seem to value in the slightest. How can they be right for encouraging insurgents who will disturb that peace? They’re creating problems, not solving them.”

“You’re wrong.” Omega’s sharp tone cuts through the silence like a blasterbolt burning through the dark. “The Empire doesn’t care about people. It only hurts them.”

The words are vague and a bit childish, but they seem to have their desired impact. Crosshair blinks, and sees the light leaving terrified eyes in a dark jungle, a desert canyon, a sprawling city.

When he shakes away the past, it is only to see a man advancing on a defenseless child, eyes blazing with something he is all too familiar with.

“The Empire only hurts those unhinged and ruthless enough to attempt to disturb the peace,” Rampart states softly. “Such heinous acts can not and should not be tolerated. Traitors are dealt with in the fashion they deserve. Through painful, merciless retribution.”

The kid tilts her head back as he towers over her, refusing to break eye contact. “It’s time for you to decide which one you are. A traitor with no reform—or a brave, loyal citizen who wishes to keep the peace that was fought so hard for. Like your brother.”

Omega draws a soft breath.

“There is only one way to choose. Tell me how to find your ‘brothers’—or stay silent, and select the path of a traitor. I assure you, the consequences for the latter will be quite excruciating.”

The kid stays quiet.

Crosshair can feel his throat tightening. Despite every bone in his body screaming for action, he holds his position.

The Admiral leans forward, bowing to put his face mere inches from hers. “Tell me where they are,” he hisses, eyes burning.

It’s enough. Omega finally cracks, leaning back away from him—and directly into Crosshair.

His hand catches her shoulder. And holds.

Rampart straightens, sneering down at her with undisguised contempt. His own hand draws back, palm angling open—

—And for a split second, Crosshair’s stance falters. His grip tightens, drawing Omega a mere inch closer in the process.

Slowly, Rampart’s hand drifts back to his side. His composed mask snaps perfectly back into place.

“You will soon regret your decision,” he says softly, eyes moving from Omega to the older clone behind her. “Take her to the interrogation facilities. Show her how the Empire deals with traitors. And if you can’t get her to talk, I’ll get someone who will.”

Crosshair slips his hand lower to grab onto the kid’s arm, tugging her around with him to exit the Admiral’s office. His heart is pounding in his ears all the way back to the detention block, pushing them past the entrances to the torture chambers on the way there.

“Aren’t we…?” Omega’s voice is shaking.

“No,” he snaps. He’s trying to think.

They both stay silent the remainder of the way to her cell. When they get there, Crosshair releases his hold on her shoulder and moves to the side for her to go down the steps. Then immediately regrets it as he sees the kid sway halfway down.

Adrenaline crash.

Before she can end up making an acquaintance with the floor, he grabs hold of her again, maneuvering her the rest of the way in so she can her sit on the bench. Omega blinks, dazed, as her eyes slide back into focus.

“Sorry,” she rasps, blinking suspiciously fast. “It’s—I just—”

Crosshair lifts a hand. “Breathe.”

She does, each inhale carrying a shudder. “‘m just tired, and it’s just…it’s been just like Kamino, and—”

“‘Just like Kamino’?”

“Yeah. The- the samples. They make me dizzy sometimes.” She shivers, and a chill runs down Crosshair’s spine in turn. “‘S why I…” she gestures to the stairs.

“Blood samples?” Then, as he sees her eyes starting to glaze over again, “Breathe in slower, not just longer.”

The kid works at taking his advice for a moment. Then gives a shaky nod.

“They’ve been taking your blood? Did they say why?”

“No.” She shivers again, and it occurs to him that she might be cold, locked in this harsh metal cage. He has nothing to offer in the way of improving that, though, so he doesn’t ask.

“Ok.” He takes his own slow breath, mind running in a thousand directions.

As soon as he shifts to take one step away from the kid, she tilts forward as if magnetized to him. Crosshair moves back, kneeling to grab her shoulders and lean her back against the wall. She stares at him blearily, all pale skin and dark-ringed eyes and pure misery.

“Easy,” he snaps in his Command voice. “It will pass.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. Cuffed hands hug her knees in close.

For several long moments, they remain frozen there. Only Omega’s gradually steadying breaths disturb the silence left in the absence of the ray shield’s hum.

“Kid?”

“Y-yeah?” Her eyes crack open.

“All this time…You’ve been acting like we’re on the same team.” He hesitates. “Highly dubious reasoning aside…You’ve never once asked me to help you escape.”

A small shake of her head.

“Why?”

A sad smile touches her lips. “Didn’t want you to have to say no.”

Crosshair stares as her eyes slide shut again, feeling the harsh lines of his expression disappear.

Omega doesn’t stir when he pushes to his feet and walks out of the cell, fingers barely scraping over the control panel as he passes.

He doesn’t stop until he’s far from the brig, pace slowing in a relatively secluded hall. The sight of a rare viewport beckons him near, pressing into the slight alcove that houses it.

The stars beyond look so far away, like none make their home in this system. From this angle, he can just see the edge of the planet they’ve stopped at below. Crosshair pulls his helmet off, cradling it between his hands as he loses his gaze to the depths of the galaxy before him.

The fact that they are scheduled to remain stationary for so long throws Rampart’s arrogance into glaring detail. He thinks that this ship would be untraceable and unpenetrable for what he believes is no more than a band of ragtag outcasts, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t know their genius, strength, or skill. They’re a force that could rip through this star destroyer’s hull without a second thought if it meant getting what they want.

But perhaps it doesn’t matter, he realizes as his eyes pick out the delicate rings of another planet far beyond. They weren’t here. Each passing second has begun to ring out with the low beat of a death march, and yet they still haven’t come.

The kid is alone.

A strangled noise escapes the back of his throat. The parody of a chuckle.

Why should he have expected any different?

His eyes descend to the visor of his helmet. Its dark green catches a few pinpricks of starlight as he turns it, taking in the angles that are somehow all the same and all wrong. Absently, his thumb traces a familiar shape over its blank right eye.

Crosshair flips it back over, letting tinted glass color the starlight once more. Before he does anything else, there’s something he needs to know.

Chapter Text

The Bastion is, first and foremost, a vessel of war. While that means it possesses enough weaponry to flatten a city, it also houses a few smaller, more subtle tools for its purposes—like the sciences division.

Crosshair has only ever heard said division mentioned once. Of course, it had been in the context of creating a biological agent to “wipe that alien filth out,” but however unrelated to his purposes that may be, it still counts as a lab, and therefore, his best bet. (Sick bay being the second runner up, but he’ll cross that bridge if he comes to it.)

The corridor outside the lab is frustratingly busy, so it takes him a few moments before he’s able to slip in unnoticed. The space inside looks the same as any other on the ship, except for the bright overhead lights, and wide array of complicated-looking equipment. It’s the sort of stuff Tech would have had a field day getting his hands on, but to Crosshair, it’s about as meaningful as junk pulled from a scrap pile.

A quick glance around reveals that there’s only one other occupant in the room. The technician has his back turned, hunched over a a viewscreen. Crosshair slips up behind him, slamming the object he had just pulled from his pack onto the shiny surface of the work station.

The man—more like a kid really, how young were they recruiting these nat-borns?—jumps, turning wide eyes on him through the protective goggles he is wearing. Crosshair scowls, angling his helmet down.

“I require an analysis.”

“You can’t just—Come sneaking in here like that!” The kid blusters, running a distraught hand through his curly hair.

The image of Rampart’s subtle, haughty smirk pops into mind and sticks. “That’s ‘Commander’ to you, Ensign,” Crosshair says cooly, glancing at the apparent lack of decorum on his uniform.

“Oh. My, uh, apologies, Sir.” He seems to take in the black armor for the first time. “What can I do for you?”

“I need an analysis.” He lifts up the item he had set down: a dark blue bottle, with only a third of the liquid left in it.

The kid’s eyebrows raise. “Um- what kind of analysis, and for what purpose?”

“DNA. Disciplinary action,” he snaps. “Just run the tests. I’ll worry about noting the results for the record.”

“Er…yes, Sir. But, it’s just, well…I can’t really do something off the record like that. And these facilities aren’t supposed to be used for anything outside of—”

Crosshair takes a step closer. “These orders come from a prominent link in the command chain.” When that doesn’t yield much of a reaction, he adds, “I trust you have no desire to disappoint the superiors who control every aspect of your career?”

A gulp. “No, Sir.” The Ensign pulls on a pair of gloves, taking the bottle from him with ginger hands. “It will only take a moment.”

Crosshair waits until the di’kut has turned away to rub some sort of swatch around the bottle’s neck. Then he palms the datarod that’s been tucked into one of the pouches on his belt.

It’s a relic of times gone by, salvaged from the barracks on Kamino. He’d picked it up after it rolled out from one of the crates of Tech’s belongings, and stuffed it amid his own. Not because of sentimentality, of course—it just so happened to have a program installed on it that could be highly useful in certain situations.

Situations like this one.

He starts a slow pace back and forth along the back wall, angling his body to block the view of the security camera mounted above as he slips the device into a port in the lab’s computer terminal. He maintains his pacing as the Ensign bumbles around in the background, stuffing the swab into some sort of scanner. He meets a worried glance from the kid with a sharp angle of his helmet, causing him to quickly look back down to his work.

Crosshair counts down the seconds as he once again passes the terminal with an air of restlessness that’s not entirely an act. By now, the completion indicator is halfway illuminated along the datarod’s side.

“The results are coming in…”

He whirls to face the Ensign, planting his feet only a short distance from the terminal. “And?”

“There are…actually several different traces of DNA being detected. And they all seem to match troopers that are in the database. Elite troopers…” He sends Crosshair’s armor yet another uneasy glance.

“Give me operating numbers.” As the kid fiddles with the pad, he takes a half step back. Almost in reach…

“ES-08, ES-11, ES-07…”

Another careful shift toward his taget. His right hand brushes the edge of the counter behind him.

“Oh, sorry—and ES-10.”

His fingers freeze where they are mere inches from the datarod.

“Is…is that all, Commander?”

“Not quite.” The sniper crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. The Ensign cringes as one of his boots angles back to plant against the spotless wall. “I need you to erase all record of your discovery from that pad.”

“Sir, I’m already omitting it from the written report—”

“Then you should have no trouble deleting it from the device’s record.” Crosshair’s arms fall to the side to pull his shoulders into an imperious line, right hand making a swoop to the terminal’s port just as he kicks off the wall. The kid fiddles nervously as he stalks up to him, holding out his left hand expectantly.

“The evidence.” he clarifies as the datapad is pulled protectively toward the Ensign’s chest. A second later, the bottle gets pushed into his hand with a muttered apology, uncertainty still written across the kid’s face. Crosshair spares him a last glare, then starts heading for the door.

“W-why do I need to erase all data for this case?”

He pauses in his tracks. “Perhaps it has not occurred to you, Ensign…but some endeavors require a certain level of…discretion.” He glances back. “I trust we have an understanding of each other?”

“…Yes, Sir.” The kid straightens a little, still pale.

Crosshair turns his helmet forward, then marches back out into the hallway. The conceited tone still clings to his tongue like slime, but the subtle weight of the datarod slipping safely back into its pouch makes up for it.

There’s an odd sensation racing up and down his spine as he makes his way down the corridor. It doesn’t abate the entire time it takes him to reach his squad’s barracks. They’re all scheduled to be in the mess hall at the moment, which permits the slow exhale he lets out as soon as he makes it inside.

A few strides, and he’s beside his bunk, digging a datapad out from the locked trunk below it and jamming the datarod into it.

As expected, it’s a huge amount of data. The rod had managed to copy logs of everything from the last two months. Tech had a particular affinity for capturing as big a picture as possible, then making sense out of the whole thing. That was all well and fine for him, but Crosshair can already feel a headache coming on as he scrolls through the long list, eyes darting over file titles as they blur by. They’re all neatly labelled—in numbers, for which he has no reference point to guess which one might be the kid’s.

A frustrated huff leaves him as he finally makes it to the date Omega was taken, and begins the tedious process of opening every log starting from there. He doesn’t so much as blink at some of the graphic images that come up. Apparently they’ve been doing research on a few different alien races. Detailed, bloody research. It doesn’t raise any hopes for the file he’s looking for.

“Come on…” the sniper mutters after what feels like an eternity of wading through the endless stream of mismatches. He nearly skips through the next one before his eyes catch on two all-too-familiar words: altered clone. His eyes begin to sweep across the body of text. The different time stamps that pop up every once in a while denote multiple entries—each growing progressively longer.

Key words jump out at him from the wall of jargon. Blood analysis… Sample two…

The first two logs are signed off by crew aboard the Bastion. Halfway down, though, and there’s a statement about the data needing to be shared with something called ‘Project Tantiss.’ Wherever or whoever that is, its input seems to be included in the most recent entry added a mere hour ago.

…no existing record of alterations leading to subject’s mutation…

Crosshair’s fingers tighten around the pad as he reaches the last line.

…Further research required to examine the extent of subject’s desireable traits. Transfer of subject requested immediately.

The datapad lowers to his lap. The dull thump it makes when it falls against the bunk’s tightly folded sheets falls on deaf ears as he stands.

For a moment, he remains frozen, staring out across the invisible precipice that waits for him.

“Good soldiers…” The hoarse words trail off, crumbling on his tongue like ash.

The first step takes a moment to lean into. The second comes more easily. Through the barracks’ door, and he blends among the hundreds of other blank masks in the corridors beyond. Instinct alone guides his path, heart pounding in his ears as thought merges like rivulets of water running into the sea.

He almost doesn’t notice the matching sets of black armor that turn a corner before him. “Commander.” ES-07’s voice catches in his ears as he passes them by. “Do we have any new orders?”

Crosshair turns, staring somewhere far beyond the hollow visors and empty plating that stare back at him.

“No,” he says, and turns away again.

The turbolift takes both a century and a single heartbeat to travel lower into the ship. Each second adds to the count, dividing every breath with their length. He almost flinches when it slows to a stop again.

The lights blur around him throughout the last hallway. He can count the flecks of paint missing on the blast door ahead.

He hands his code cylinder over to the guard. Watches as it’s scanned; hears the affirming beep. Forces his pace to stay steady as he accepts it back and enters the hall bathed in red light.

Last chance, something hisses to him from the back of his mind.

He faces the cell. And feels his heart climb into his throat.

Empty. One glance at the number denies the ridiculous idea that he’s chosen the wrong one.

Crosshair’s palm smacks blindly into the controls. He half-ducks inside, casting narrowed eyes around in case he somehow missed Omega. She’s a small kid; maybe she had found a way to hide herself from view.

But of course she hasn’t. What does he have left if not his ability to pinpoint a target?

He can’t disguise his hurried pace as he approaches the guard’s station once more. “Where is she?”

The TK startles, visor snapping up to his own. “You mean Prisoner-6891, Sir?”

“Yes,” Crosshair clenches his teeth. The vacancy of every other cell in the brig should have spoken for itself.

“She was taken for questioning at…13:34, Sir.” The trooper hits a few keys on the terminal.

“I’m assigned as the primary handler.” Ice creeps up his spine. “Who removed her?”

He hardly waits for the answer he already knows before he’s hurrying out of the brig, shoving past a duo of patrolling TKs in the corridor outside.

Every heartbeat holds the pound of a wardrum in his chest, his feet joining the cadence to form a twisted rhythm.

He’s sprinting by the time he reaches his destination. The sniper’s right hand goes to his hip as he comes upon the entrance, unbuckling the holster over his deecee. He allows himself the split-second comfort of palming its grip. Then his hand falls back to his side, jaw setting beneath his helmet as he braces himself, and enters the chamber before him.

Chapter Text

Despite his resolve to maintain an image of calm, the scene that’s waiting inside nearly sends his hand right back to his blaster.

Omega’s head is bowed where she huddles at her usual spot at the table, hair curtaining down to obscure her eyes. Her fingers clutch around her arms, like she’s caught in a freezing gale. The spherical form of an interrogator droid looms just behind her, filling the room with its low hum.

The smile thrown at him from the table’s other side is enough to make Crosshair’s hands clench into fists. “Hello, CT-9904,” Rampart greets, tilting the blaster in his hand. “I was hoping you would join us.”

The sniper remains frozen, eyes flickering between Omega and the Admiral. The man’s grip on the weapon is loose, elbow propped up on the table with the barrel pointing toward the ceiling. One twitch of his wrist, and it could align with the kid’s forehead in a second.

As he’s absorbing that particular detail, Omega stirs. Crosshair feels the air lodge in his throat as she looks up with wide eyes, lips forming a silent word.

“Please do sit down.” Rampart’s deceptively calm expression can’t hide the triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I insist.”

So much for keeping up the act of loyalty. It takes every ounce of willpower—and another glance at the narrow gap between the kid and that blaster—not to reach for his weapon. With heavy feet, Crosshair steps forward. Rampart’s eyes track him every step of the way, narrowing as he lowers himself to sit on the same side as the kid.

Crosshair risks turning his helmet toward her. He finds her still watching him. A frail smile touches her lips.

“K-knew you’d come,” she whispers. No sooner has she spoken the words than her eyes squeeze shut, a shudder running through her.

Crosshair twitches, brows tugging together. Rampart’s hold on the blaster tightens.

“Remove your helmet.”

Slowly, he lifts his hands to the seals. The passing thought of chucking it at the shabuir isn’t far from his mind as he sets it on the table.

“And your weapons.” The blaster tilts down, just barely hovering above Omega. Crosshair does another few calculations, and finds the most probable result is not in his favor. There’s always a chance he could shoot before Rampart has time to react, but…

Rampart’s wrist angles lower. Omega shivers, pointedly not looking at the barrel as it lines up with her forehead.

Crosshair reaches back, unslinging his Firepuncher. His deecee joins it beside his helmet a moment later.

“Now,” Rampart says, turning his gaze back to Omega. “Omega and I were just discussing your brothers’ whereabouts. Weren’t we?”

The kid winces, eyes locked to the tabletop.

“So, where might they be?”

Both men watch as the girl curls in closer on herself. Crosshair’s fingernails bite into his right palm.

“I…I don’t know…”

“Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Omega’s eyes slide back to Crosshair’s. “Dej..Dejarik. They must’ve been listening.”

“Come now. I’m certain CT-9904 already knew that all of your sessions together were being recorded.” Rampart sends a smile toward the older clone.

Crosshair grits his teeth. He had known these rooms were monitored. He just hadn’t anticipated the Admiral deigning to pull up any records himself.

Rampart keeps his eyes on him even as he adds to Omega, “Though if it makes you feel any better, the Empire was already interested in you before you mentioned the Kaminoans’ desire for your retrieval.” His gaze lingers long enough to take in the way Crosshair’s eyes narrow, before turning back to the younger clone. “I’ll give you another chance: Where are they?”

Another shake of Omega’s head. Her fingers dig harder into her arms, shoulders tensing.

A sigh. “Shock,” Rampart says, any pretense of pleasantry washed away by clinical blankness.

Crosshair hardly has time to process the word before Omega is crying out, the droid jabbing its prod into her skin. Every muscle in his body tenses, ready to lunge toward her.

The feeling of cold metal pressing into his temple makes him pause.

“My, CT-9904,” Rampart murmurs benath the sound of Omega’s cries of pain. “Trying to aid a prisoner? One might begin to question your loyalties.”

The sniper bares his teeth, unable to tear his eyes from her. Rampart watches on for a few heartbeats longer, then gives a gentle wave of his free hand. “Stop.”

The droid pulls back. Omega slumps forward against the table, gasping for air.

“She’s put up with quite a few of those already,” Rampart murmurs lowly. “I wonder how many more it will take?”

A tremor runs through Crosshair’s hands. Not from fear, though he will not deny that he feels a sliver of that.

“Torturing a child must make you feel so powerful, Admiral.”

“Hm. Not as much as I had hoped.” The man studies the blaster in his hand. “But it does give me power over you, doesn’t it?”

Crosshair eyes him from his peripheral. “I would have had them on Ipoth.”

Rampart’s small smile only grows wider. “Perhaps. Or perhaps another unfortunate accident would have occurred. Much like on Kamino?”

The sniper’s eye twitches.

“I knew your functionality was questionable when ex-Clone Force 99 turned up alive. But the way you so obviously wanted to shield this one…” he chuckles. “You care about this little miscreant, don’t you? Like your own primitive idea of family.”

His silence only spurs another chuckle.

“No matter. The information our scientists have gathered during her stay has proven to be far more useful than anything you could have gotten out of her. I’ll be proud to deliver such a valuable asset into the right hands. But still…” Rampart sighs. “Taking down the rest of you…that would have been a more personal benefit. One that I may yet have a chance to glean.”

“You need her,” Crosshair hisses, the words bitter on his tongue. “Unharmed.”

“I’ll keep the damage superficial.” Rampart turns to where Omega is pushing herself upright again. “You should have listened when I warned you about your ‘brothers,’” he leans forward, smirking at the girl as she pulls back from the table. The movement shifts his blaster back from Crosshair’s temple, but its barrel still holds him in its sights.

“They’re disappointments, all of them,” the Admiral is saying. “Don’t be like them. You can be better. You can tell me where you’ve been hiding. Or…” he gestures to the droid behind her.

“No…” Omega mumbles, eyes clouded.

“Tell me,” Rampart repeats, tone lacing with impatience. “Or maybe…I’ll kill this one.”

“No!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Crosshair hisses.

“You know who you need to listen to,” Rampart ignores him smoothly. “Now give me what I need, before I’m forced to take drastic action.”

“They’re…It’s…” The kid grits her teeth, shoulders heaving. “It’s on…”

“Yes?”

Crosshair inches forward in his seat. The Admiral’s response is a quick glare, aiming the blaster back on Omega.

“They’re on…” Omega sways, and the sniper winces.

Sorry, kid.

“Spit it out!”

“They’re on—”

Crosshair lunges.

With one hard shove, the kid falls off the bench with a yelp. His right hand darts out to knock the blaster to the side, the bolt Rampart fires nearly frying off his fingers. It flies over his shoulder, bouncing off the shielded two way mirror behind him and striking the wall opposite.

Rampart gives an enraged shout as Crosshair wrestles him for the blaster, the clone vaulting over the table to tackle him.

He’s surprisingly strong, and Crosshair feels a stab of shock as the man twists them around, slamming his head into the durasteel wall. He still doesn’t let go of the blaster, gripping it like a Rancor with a bone in its jaws even as stars spring across his vision.

Crosshair brings up a fist in retaliation, and manages to land a hit on the kriffer’s jaw, shoving him back with all his might. The movement puts Rampart closer to the table’s edge—and Crosshair’s own weapons. Still keeping ahold of the blaster torn between them, the Admiral risks letting go with one hand to snatch up his deecee with the other. The maneuver lends Crosshair the advantage he needs to land one finger on the trigger.

The flash of a bolt burning into his retinas makes him cringe. Rampart’s yell of pain makes up for it.

Tasting victory, the sniper fully wrenches the weapon from his grip. The Admiral doubles over, left hand clamping over the sizzling burn mark in his right shoulder.

He looks up to find the blaster’s barrel level with his vision. Through the pain twisted into his features, a smile tugs at his lips.

“You think you’ve won, clone?”

Crosshair meets his gaze with eyes set in steel.

“You can’t,” the Admiral grounds out, stumbling backwards. The deecee is still loosely clutched in his right hand. Crosshair matches his steps, keeping his own blaster inches from his face. He’s one heartbeat away from letting his finger apply the last inch of pressure on the trigger when Rampart’s eyes trail to the side. “I already knew how this would end.”

Crosshair doesn’t risk taking his eyes off him, observing the source of his attention only from his own peripheral. Omega is just sitting up on the floor, rubbing her head. The droid lowers to hover behind her, sharp attachments held at the ready.

“Make another move, and I tell the droid to kill her.”

“Let’s see you talk fast enough before a point-blank headshot,” Crosshair sneers, but feels his heartrate jump all the same.

“That’s why I instructed it to terminate her the second any physical harm comes to me. Spoken command or not.” Rampart’s responding grin is equally as savage. “Let’s see you move faster than a bolt of electricity straight to the heart.”

The two men stare at each other, neither willing to look away as the seconds drag by.

“Step back,” Rampart says lowly. “Or watch her die.”

Every ounce of training and instinct screams no. But Omega’s soft gasp as the IT-O extends its needle toward the back of her neck effectively crushes the last bricks holding up the wall of resistance.

Slowly, Crosshair lowers his blaster. And takes a step back.

Rampart straightens, drawing a shaky breath. He plasters his calm expression back on a second later, hand unclenching slightly where it still cradles his wound. The deecee floats back to his side. “Send medical and security to holding room 10,” he directs into his comm. With the channel closed out, he adds, “‘Omega’ and I will have to resume our conversation later.”

Off to the side, the kid shifts to sit up straighter where she remains on the floor. Some of the wooziness from her last dose of probe serum must have worn off, because now she glares at Rampart with more hatred than Crosshair had believed a little girl could summon.

Her gaze shifts, locking with his.

Rampart remains oblivous, extending a hand toward Crosshair. “Your blaster, if you please—”

“I can tell you where they are now,” Omega cuts him off.

The Admiral arches a brow. “Can you now?” At the girl’s silence, he adds, “Well, don’t keep us waiting.”

Omega swallows thickly, determined not to look away from her torturer. “Raxus.”

A scoff leaves Rampart. “Not the brightest specimen, are you? I’ve reviewed every recording of your interactions. You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” she hunches a little lower, like she’s cowering. The fire in her eyes betrays the movement as she whispers, “I’m strategizing.”

Crosshair’s hand darts up the second she hits the floor flat, the droid erupting into a beautiful explosion of sparks behind her. He dives into a roll as Rampart opens fire on him, letting the reflective glass behind him do its work.

The distinctive hiss of lasers hitting flesh rings out. A soft wheeze. Rampart takes a staggering step back, looking down to the burn marks grouped on his chest.

This time, he sinks to the floor, hands attempting to catch himself as he keels onto his side.

Omega gags. Not very experienced with the scent of burning flesh, then. Lucky her.

Crosshair snatches up his deecee from where the man dropped it, extracting the charge from Rampart’s own blaster before chucking it into the corner. He steps over him to make his way to where the kid is getting up, legs as coordinated as a newborn Eeopie’s.

He doesn’t waste any time with helping to drag her up, supporting her with his left arm as he gets them moving toward the door. His Firepuncher and helmet rejoin his arsenal halfway there.

It’s not until they’re stepping through the door that a wretched sound reaches Crosshair’s ears: A scratchy wheeze, most likely intended to be a laugh.

“That’s— right. Flee, like the vermin you are. You’ll never…make it out…alive…”

The sniper pauses. Looks back, fingers tightening around his blaster.

There’s blood at the corner of Rampart’s mouth. It stains his teeth as he manages a bleary grin.

A shaky hand catches his hand halfway to lifting the gun.

“No time,” Omega whispers, wide eyes looking past his visor. “They’re coming.”

And…she’s right. He can just hear it now: the distant tempo of several footsteps echoing down the corridor. Rampart’s reinforcements.

The automatic doors give a warning whir, moving toward each other. Omega tugs insistently on his wrist.

And Crosshair…acquiesces. But not before firing off a single shot into the last few inches between the closing doors.

Omega flinches against him, lips parting in silent shock. Crosshair doesn’t give them any more time to linger, making a sharp right down the hall, away from the quickening footsteps. They duck down a different hall at the next opportunity, mere seconds before the approaching troopers can catch a glimpse of them.

They won’t make it to the hangar. An escape pod is their only bet.

Crosshair forces them to a slower pace from their hurried half-sprint as a pair of TKs turns a corner ahead. They appear at ease, indicating that Rampart hadn’t alerted the whole ship to his betrayal. Crosshair shifts his grip on the kid a little, trying to look like he’s just escorting a prisoner from point A to point B.

One of the trooper’s visors tracks over them as they draw nearer. The sniper doesn’t so much as twitch, keeping his own visor fixed straight ahead as he marches the wobbly kid along in front of him.

As they pass, he sees one TK’s hand go to his helmet’s side.

He barely has time to tap his comm before a blasterbolt is cutting through his armor and straight into his heart. An instant later, his companion joins him on the floor.

Crosshair lowers his deecee, pulling the kid along faster. He resists the urge to just pick her up and run. It wouldn’t be wise to sacrifice the mobility of his hands.

No sooner have the turbolifts come into view than the pound of footsteps reaches his ears. Someone had long since found the Admiral’s body. He curses, backtracking them down the nearest turn and pressing them back flat into an alcove created by the frame of a blast door.

He scarcely breathes as the troopers rush by on their right. One slows to peer down the corridor they hide in. Despite not being able to see, Omega tenses behind him. Crosshair stays stock still, glad for his black armor that blends with the shadows. There’s just a sliver of his shoulder that’s unavoidably sticking out…

The trooper rushes on after the others.

Omega heaves a sigh of relief. Then winces as Crosshair grabs her arm again, tugging them back toward their goal.

He can hear more footsteps thundering close by as they approach the turbolift. His eyes narrow as he spots the moving indicator on its controls.

Kriff. They could be opening the door to a half a dozen blasters.

A tug on his wrist grabs his attention.

“Crosshair! Look!” Omega points, and he follows her finger to the curve of a hatch located a little further down the hall, a tiny white light illuminating its handle. “The tunnels!”

Another glance at the turbolift’s indicator, and his decision is made for him. He leads them over to crouch before the hatch, grabbing ahold of the handle. It utters a beep at him, a panel blinking to life beside it.

Authentication code?

Beside him, Omega gives a dismayed groan. Crosshair stares at it. Then lifts his deecee, and blasts it.

An affirmative beep rings out. The hatch unlocks with a click.

The sniper grabs the handle once more, digging his heels in to tug at it. A smaller pair of hands joins his own, both clones working to heave it open all the way.

“In,” Crosshair hisses as he shoves the kid forward, climbing in backwards after her. He can already feel a wave of claustrophobia as his shoulders scrape the walls. The tunnel seems hardly big enough to fit an Ugnaught.

It takes a moment to get the right angle to heave the hatch shut from the inside. It’s difficult not letting it slam, the sound of more troops in the hallway outside making his heart leap.

They’re sealed in.

Crosshair listens for a second, waiting until the pound of boots outside has passed them by. When he can only hear his and the kid’s unsteady breaths, he awkwardly maneuvers himself to turn, looking at her where she’s now crouched in front of him.

“Move,” he orders, keeping his voice low. She obeys, and they start crawling through the tunnel. The occasional dim light in the wall stands as their only source of illumination.

“Where are we going?”

“Two decks up. Escape pods. We’ll have to climb.”

No sooner has he said it, then the distant howl of a klaxon alarm starts up. Omega gasps softly.

“Ignore it. Keep moving.”

He can hear more footsteps and shouting echoing through the walls. The tunnel loops around to run along the corridor’s wall, leaving them to occasionally duck around wiring and inconvenient protrusions. Sometimes it slopes lower, to the point where they’re below the floor.

It’s not until it gives a particularly sharp turn that Crosshair hears Omega’s breath catch. He narrows his eyes, expecting it to be a sign of lingering serum effects—then spots the reason ahead.

The tunnel opens out into two directions. One going right—and one leading straight up. Crosshair has to curl in even further in order to peer up the seemingly endless ladder beside her, lips twisting into a calculating scowl. One glance at his pale companion, and it deepens.

“Move over,” he snaps, already elbowing past her. Once he’s properly aligned below the open space, he allows himself the momentary relief of climbing to his feet. Then promptly crouches, looking over his shoulder.

“Climb up.”

He sees the kid’s eyes widen in the dark. She creeps forward, awkwardly scrambling up onto his back. Judging by how quickly she manages it, she’s had some practice being toted around before. Probably for fun, he thinks with a mental eyeroll toward Wrecker.

With her arms wrapped firmly in place around his neck, he pulls them up onto the first rung of the ladder. “Don’t let go,” he warns, then starts climbing as fast as he can.

Two decks up doesn’t sound like a lot until you have a surprisingly heavy kid hanging off your back, and an entire starship of soldiers looking for you. Crosshair grits his teeth as the klaxon blares louder through a thinner part of the wall. He can feel sweat running down his face beneath his helmet, eyes dead set on the rungs above him. Each one turns into a different thing to mentally curse at, the swears falling into a sort of mantra.

Kriff you, Rampart. Kriff you, Hunter. Kriff you, Echo.

His right hand nearly slips, causing him to bite back an audible swear.

Kriff you, Wrecker. Kriff you, Tech. Kriff you all for leaving me here with this infuriating child who no one else was going to karking rescue.

A clatter from below. His hand pauses on the next rung.

He hadn’t been ‘gifted’ with sharp hearing, but it doesn’t take him long to recognize the sound of voices echoing up the tube. Omega sucks in a breath from his shoulder.

Crosshair sets his jaw, left arm groaning in protest as he’s forced to shift a good chunk of their combined weight on it. His right hand finds his holster, careful to not dislodge the kid’s leg where it’s wrapped around his middle.

He muffles a grunt at the effort and pain that comes from swinging them to one side of the tube, the kid’s back smacking gracelessly into the wall. He feels her cringe, but she keeps silent.

Crosshair aims down the tube, leaning over as much as he dares to peer down.

Far below, he sees a flash of white in the dark. The pinched visor of a TK angles up to seek out his own. It’s followed by the barrel of a blaster, but by that point, a brilliant streak of blue is already flying down from his own deecee to impact with the trooper’s helmet.

In wake of the echoing din, shouts begin to travel up. Crosshair grits his teeth, firing more shots and haphazardly swinging himself and the kid to the tube’s other side as several bolts narrowly miss them.

He keeps firing until he sees and hears no one else below. Then—after waiting only a few seconds in silence—he angles them back straight on the ladder, pushing up and onward.

The news of their last location will spread quickly. They have to get out of this death-trap before any other troopers follow them in.

They’re past the halfway point of the next deck when he feels another thrill of adrenaline run up his spine. The hatch he’s aiming for—the one several dozen rungs above—is shaking.

It bursts open just as his fingers close around his deecee again. Rinse and repeat from earlier: troopers peering in only to earn themselves a laser to the brain.

Except this time, he has to worry about more than just himself and the kid falling.

The third trooper he guns down tilts forward rather than back, plastoid scraping loudly as his entire body hinges over the seam of the hatch. Maybe it’s just an inconvenient angling of his body, or maybe it’s a coordinated shove from behind. Regardless of cause, all Crosshair sees is a solid weight of flesh and plastoid hurtling towards them. The sniper throws himself against the ladder, armor clattering against the steel as he attempts to press them flat.

It works. For him.

Omega’s yelp echoes around them as one of the trooper’s limbs clips her, causing her grip to slip. Crosshair whirls, hooking his occupied arm over the rung as he reaches for her with his free hand.

Their fingertips just brush.

Then she’s falling.

Beneath his visor, his eyes widen. He makes to lunge, instinct just barely forcing him to keep his hold on the ladder. He sees her flail, as if she can somehow claw her way back to him through the air—

—and her hands snag onto the ladder. She yelps, barely grasping the metal.

“Crosshair!” It comes out as more of a sob than a scream.

“Kid!” A flash of blue striking the rung above his hand forces him to turn away, ice flooding through his veins as he fires at another trooper above. “Hang on!”

If she replies, he doesn’t hear it. He guns down the rest of the TKs that pop their heads in, striking every target with lightning precision.

When no more make a move to appear, he starts climbing back down the ladder. Omega is barely holding on, staring up at him in terror. Crosshair pauses as close above her as he dares, locking their gazes through his visor.

“Come on,” he says, stretching his hand down to hers. “Reach.”

A tiny shake of her head. “I-I can’t,” she gasps.

The sniper takes a deep breath. Tries to shut out the wail of the klaxon and the roar of blood in his ears.

“You can. You’re stronger than you think. Just reach.”

She swallows. One shaky hand pries away from the bar, fingers spreading desperately as she stretches up toward him.

Crosshair catches her hand in his own, grits his teeth, and tugs with all his might. To her credit, she tries to help him as best she can, feet pushing off the bars to help support her weight as he lifts her.

“I’m going to throw you up onto my back,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “I—suggest—we get it right the first try.”

A nod, and he braces himself—then heaves her up, pulling her as high as he can and swinging her haphazardly toward his back.

His entire arm groans, but the kid scrambles on—and stays.

This time, they make it to the hatch with no disturbances. The dead troopers have conveniently left it open, leaving Crosshair with only the task of lunging through it without knocking the kid loose.

It’s not a pretty affair, but they come up on the other side alive. Omega falls off his back with a grunt, nearly tripping over one of the dead TKs as she stumbles to her feet up alongside him.

Crosshair glances up and down the hall they’ve just entered, the red flash of the emergency alert system dulled by the green of his visor. Clear, for now.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts enough to remember what direction the escape pods should be from their present location. Once he decides, he grabs the kid, leading them as swiftly as they can move in the right direction.

And…it’s easy. Far too easy. They only have to take one detour to avoid two batches of TKs. The rest is a straight shot.

Crosshair slows them to a halt one corridor over from their destination.

“Something’s not right,” he mutters, releasing his grip on the kid in favor of unslinging his rifle from his back.

Aiming its muzzle around the corner to peer over into the next hall gives him a quick answer as to why.

A wall of black and white armor stands between them and the row of escape pods. A shot narrowly misses his rifle as it scopes them out.

“CT-9904,” ES-10’s voice rings out. Crosshair makes a face, already reaching back into his pack and digging through its contents. “Now is your final chance to surrender.”

Crosshair busies himself with tossing familiar objects on either side of the short corridor they’re sheltered in. The distant thud of more approaching boots down the opposite end causes him to quicken his pace. He won’t have time to do the same for the corridor’s other end, but he has a different idea for that.

Omega’s eyes bug out as he shrugs off his pack, handing her the whole thing with a nest of metal spheres sitting within easy reach on the top.

“They’re stun grenades,” he hisses in exasperation as she opens her mouth with a grimace. “When I give the signal, throw as many as you can, as fast as you can. In their direction.”

Woeful moral conflict assuaged, she nods, taking up position behind him as he raises his rifle.

“They’re coming on both sides,” the kid breathes, the soft scuffle of boots growing closer.

“I know.”

He counts the seconds down as the footfalls slow just beyond view.

3…2…1…

“Now,” he whispers, just as the first white helmet comes into view.

Omega chucks two grenades. Crosshair tracks their trajectory, shooting both as she snatches up more.

The grenades explode into arcs of electricity, stunning the first troopers as they appear. The next wave is wiped out in a similar fashion, Omega’s surprisingly powerful throws centering right in their midst.

Crosshair swivels to face the other way as another unit swarms the entrance behind them. He taps his rangefinder down, throwing his own projectile—a smoke bomb—before seeking out the tiny target waiting on the wall. His aim lands on the reflector, bouncing along the half-dozen others and wreaking havoc among the soldiers. Crosshair keeps firing, using their momentary panic to freely pick off the survivors through the haze.

“I’m out of grenades!” Omega yelps, and he whips back around, dodging the blasts the remaining few troopers send their way. He nails one that had been aiming for the kid between the eyes.

Seconds later, and they’re left in a silent corridor with armored bodies piled on either end.

Omega sucks in a soft breath. Crosshair lowers his rifle’s sight from his eye.

“Careful, you might run out of cannon fodder soon,” he calls into the eery silence.

After a moment, a scoff reaches his ears. It’s not difficult to pick up the current of unease that runs through the trooper’s words. “I always knew you were kriffed in the brain. Even the other freaks didn’t want you back.”

Crosshair takes his pack back from the kid. An idea sparks as he catches sight of deep blue glass hidden among the supplies inside. He palms his last smoke grenade off his belt, gesturing for Omega to follow as he creeps toward the corner.

“I have something of yours here.”

“You mean the girl?” ES-08’s voice replies this time. Crosshair can tell they’ve moved closer. “She’s preferable alive, but an acceptable casualty.”

He signals to Omega, passing her the bottle he’s taken out of his pack. She nods, takes a breath—

—then throws it as hard as she can around the corner. Crosshair’s scope follows it as he risks leaning out, firing a bolt after it. It hits the bottle at the very second it collides with one of the ES troopers in front, shattering with a satisfying crack.

The trooper’s panicked screams as the alcohol ignites on her armor have their desired effect. Crosshair throws the smoke grenade as every untrained helmet wavers on the spectacle, picking off the glowing silhouettes highlighted through his rangefinder.

Three ES’s have fallen by the time the smoke clears, leaving ES-10 and ES-07 as the only remainders of his former squad. Crosshair guns down the last TKs that try to rush forward, ducking back around the corner as the space he just occupied is pelted with blaster bolts.

““This ends now, lab rat!”

“Then come finish it,” Crosshair taunts. They’re running out of time. More reinforcements will be here soon.

His challenge is accepted sooner than he expects. A blur of black armor flies into him from around the corner, knocking his Firepuncher from his hands as ES-07 tackles him to the floor.

Crosshair grunts in pain as they wrestle, trying to hold her off as he wraps one leg around her own to try to flip them. His attempt to shield against 07’s punches with his left arm is immediately used against him. The trooper wrenches the limb aside, sending a jarring pain through it as she slams it into the floor. He tries to keep her at bay with his right hand, but she slips past his weakened defenses, getting him in a chokehold.

It gives him twice the motivation for trying to shove her off, but 07 is karking heavy, and he’s starting to see stars by the time his hands find somewhere to dig in under her armor to try and hurt her back.

Somewhere past the dull ringing in his ears, a blastershot goes off.

Omega.

“Die, you pathetic little kriffer,” ES-07 growls, pressing all her weight into his upper torso. Something hot ignites in Crosshair’s veins, flaring through him like the flames he had sparked mere moments ago. He finally hooks his leg between hers, shoving with a newfound strength to bowl her over and reverse their positions. 07 hisses as he now leans over her, grabbing hold of her helmet and slamming her head into the floor as hard as he can.

Even so, she still squeezes tight around his neck. Her hold eventually loosens on the third slam, but doesn’t release. Crosshair repeats the movement, hearing plastoid crack as he fights past the encroaching darkness to save more than just himself.

That is, if he’s not already too late.

The trooper’s fingers finally weaken around throat, and Crosshair drags a ragged breath into his burning lungs. He wrenches out of her grip, rolling half off his adversary and fumbling for his deecee. 07 blindly lunges back up at him as he finally draws it, knocking his shot off aim—

—Where it strikes one of his reflectors.

The blast pings as it ricochets.

The cry of pain that escapes 07’s vocoder cuts off halfway. Her body slumps to the side, a curl of smoke leaving the singed hole in her armor.

Crosshair’s lips part in a silent inhale. His hand lifts up, hovering over his breastplate. At first, he feels nothing—

“C-Crosshair?”

—Then there’s the familiar burning.

He takes a breath, eyes briefly squeezing shut as he rides out the first waves of pain. When they open again, it’s to meet a pair of horrified ones.

The kid. She was alive.

Alive, and looking more afraid than he has ever seen her as she falls to her knees at his side.

“N-no,” she whispers, reaching for the smoldering burn mark in his own armor. “You can’t…”

“I’m not,” he rasps. He drags himself back from the dead trooper slumped over his legs. “Didn’t go through. Surface level…” He coughs, sparing a glance at his hand as he pulls it back from his mouth. Clean. Thank kriff. “…Burn.”

He climbs to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. Omega follows closely. When the bursts of spots and stars clear from his vision, he finally notices what’s clutched in her hands.

Crosshair leans forward to take his Firepuncher, eyes darting back up to hers questioningly. His gaze moves over her shoulder to where another prone figure lies behind her. Omega follows his line of sight.

“Oh. I stunned him,” she says, staring at ES-10’s limp body. “I didn’t…kill him.”

Crosshair nudges her to start moving, heading toward the row of shuttlepods waiting around the corner. He glances both ways down the hall before moving to the nearest one’s controls.

“You picked up my rifle, figured out the stun setting, and shot an elite trooper before he could shoot back.” He coughs again, jabbing at the control panel to activate it.

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” She jostles one shoulder as she leans heavily against the wall. Adrenaline crash, Crosshair’s mind supplies dully. What the kriff else she could’ve been running on while hopped up on probe serum, he doesn’t know. “He…had me, then he got distracted by you fighting the other one. Didn’t notice me picking it up.”

Crosshair shoots a scrutinizing glance her way as the pod’s hatch pops open.

“It is kind of hard to fire, though. I almost dropped it because it jumps so much.” She gives a weak smile over her shoulder, climbing inside the pod. Crosshair has to duck to follow, rangefinder almost clipping the hatch.

He’s not unaware of how his breaths are rasping slightly on the inhale, each one a fight against the searing claws of the burn sinking into his chest. He throws himself into the pilot’s seat, powering up the pod and sealing the hatch behind them.

“It’s called recoil. And you better be glad you didn’t,” he mutters, seizing the flight stick and slamming a hand onto the ‘eject’ button. “Now hang on.”

The pod lurches, then they’re shooting out away from the Bastion and into the freedom of space.

Chapter Text

Within the next heartbeat, Crosshair starts powering up the pod’s primitive navicomputer. His free hand fumbles to find the tracking device he knows is beneath the console. The wires tear out of it with a satisfying pop before it makes an acquaintance with the underside of his boot.

A flicker of scarlet out the corner of his eye draws his attention to the viewport.

“They’re shooting at us!” Omega yelps, elbowing her way up next to him. She reaches for the flight stick, but Crosshair beats her to it. The pod’s thrusters kick on, pushing them starboard and out of the way of a barrage of shots. They skim by much too close for comfort. The sniper gives another series of jabs with the stick, getting the shuttle’s clunky steering to pull into another evasive maneuver.

It keeps him busy enough that he doesn’t notice Omega tapping at the navicomputer until it gives an affirmative beep.

He has just enough time to catch “Bright Jewel System” on the screen before he turns his attention back to not getting them killed.

“Kid,” he grunts, a flicker of panic that’s unrelated to the hail of lasers outside tugging at his gut. “What’re you—”

“Trust me,” Omega breathes.

The flight stick resists his hold as the thrusters boost them to face the right direction. Omega’s hand lands on the hyperdrive lever, pulling back toward them. The stars blur, gathering into brilliant streaks of blue. Crosshair watches on, fingers frozen on the controls and feeling a rock settle somewhere just below the wound in his chest.

The pod gives a violent jerk, leaping into hyperspace. Not, however, before one of the lasers from the Bastion manages to skim across its hull.

Crosshair’s eyes widen, one arm darting out to brace around the kid. The pod shudders, the unending azure tunnel outside wobbling—before slowly evening out.

“Did it…?” Omega casts a worried glance towards the ceiling.

The sniper leans back to the console, hitting a few buttons. “Hyperdrive’s still functional. Lifesupport functions took a hit.”

“Does that mean we’re going to run out of air?”

It takes him a moment to answer, reading through the long list of readouts. “Oxygen levels appear to be stable.” He takes a shallow breath, pain digging into his sternum. “We should have enough to get…there.” He gives her a side eye.

“Ord Mantell,” Omega says softly.

Crosshair looks back to the readout. “Climate controls, on the other hand…” he turns from the console, squeezing around the side of the pilot’s chair and maneuvering his way to the bench seats built into the back wall.

With the space freed up, Omega peers over at the computer. “Oh,” she whispers.

Crosshair wrenches off the top of the bench, bending to rifle through the contents of the storage compartment beneath it. Glow rods, ration packs, a medpack, and a thermal blanket. He tosses the last one to the kid, who catches it with a start.

“Might want to get that unfolded,” he grunts, replacing the seat and turning his attention to the next most prominent matter at hand: the charred hole in his breastplate.

Gingerly, he begins prying the piece of armor off, stifling a hiss of pain as he drops it to the side. Both it and ES-07’s body had absorbed most of the impact, but not very much of the heat.

A dismayed sound comes from in front of him. Omega clambers around the pilot’s seat, eyes wide as she stares at the burned flesh exposed through the hole in his blacks. A few scraps of the fabric have partially melted against his skin, probably adding to what must be a nauseating sight for inexperienced eyes.

Crosshair scowls as he pops open the medkit, fishing a thin pair of scissors out. With frustratingly shaky hands, he sets to work cutting away the fabric around the injury. The sharp pain and tingling down his left forearm tells him something is probably kriffed up from the hit it took earlier. Not broken, but maybe fractured. There’s not much he can do about that right now, though, so he ignores it as best he can. Maybe he’ll get it looked at when…

The scissors slip, nicking dangerously close to his wound. Crosshair breathes a quiet curse, feeling a wave of sweat break out across his brow. The idea of the temperature taking a plunge suddenly doesn’t sound so bad. The sniper swipes the back of his wrist across his forehead, squinting as he adjusts his hold on the fabric’s edge.

A smaller pair of hands suddenly intrudes against his concentration, reaching for the sharp object in his hand. Crosshair lifts his chin, locking eyes with the kid.

“Let me do it,” she says.

“I’ve got—”

“No. I need to help you.” A small waver in her lower lip. Her dark brown eyes bore into his lighter ones with an intensity that makes him blink.

“You’re exhausted. Not to mention still hopped up on probe serum. Go sit down.”

“I’m fine. It’s wearing off.”

One of his brows manages a skeptical twitch.

“You’re not doing any better,” she points out. “At least my hands aren’t shaky.”

“No, you just look like death warmed over.”

Omega glares back, taking a purposefully steady breath and standing a little straighter.

Crosshair makes to ignore her, taking another few cuts at his blacks before his next breath catches as he nicks himself again, this time jabbing into the landmine of burned flesh.

When the black spots dance out of his vision, Omega’s hands are on his.

“Let me help.” The words dip close to a whisper, but carry the steel of command.

The muscle in Crosshair’s jaw ticks. Slowly, he flips the scissors over, proffering her the handle. “If you start getting woozy—”

“I’ll stop,” she promises, taking them with the ghost of a smile. Her eyes narrow in concentration as she sets to finishing the job, grabbing hold of his shirt and continuing the choppy line he had started with short, controlled snips. Crosshair stays as still as possible while she does, trying to steady himself against a wave of exhaustion.

With the last clip, Omega sets aside the excess fabric, brows pulling together as she stares at the ugly wound peering through the hole in his blacks.

“We need bacta,” she decides. Crosshair is already reaching for the medkit again, fingers clumsy as he digs out a wad of the blue patches.

“Bandages,” he hisses as his vision decides to swim around some more. “Need to—disinfect. It’s the clear bottle. Then bacta. Bandages will keep it in place.”

“Ok.” He feels Omega’s hands rooting around beside his own in the medkit. She shoves his aside after a second of what he imagines might be hesitation, rifles around a little more, then lines up the three requested items on the limited space beside him.

“I haven’t cleaned my hands.” Her voice snaps him to attention from where his eyes have drifted shut.

“Use the spray on them.” He indicates the disinfectant, biting his cheek as his chest burns.

There’s a few telltale spritzes, then she’s aiming the nozel toward his wound. She hesitates. Crosshair eyes her concerned expression with as much impassivity as he can summon.

“Will it hurt you?”

“Yes.” At a guilty downturn of her lips, “But I’ve endured far worse.”

Omega takes a soft breath. She gives him an apologetic look, then squeezes the trigger. Crosshair gnaws on his tongue as she continues after his brisk nod, getting the entirety of the injury. It stings like the wrong end of a Yalbec, but he had been honest about having dealt with worse.

The sniper grabs up one of the sanitary cloths peaking out from the medkit when she finishes, dabbing up the pink-tinged excess that runs down onto his blacks. To his relief, the few bits of fabric that had stuck to his skin slough off with some careful swipes.

Omega busies herself with cracking open the bacta patches. Crosshair feels some of the searing ache ease as she presses the first one on. He picks up the next, and they both work to stick them on until his burned flesh is finally covered, saving them both the eyesore.

“I’ll wrap it,” he dismisses her hoarsely as she lifts the role of gauze. “Sit down ‘fore you crash.”

“I’m fine.” She finds the roll’s end, leaning some of her weight into the bench beside him.

“Sure,” he mutters, making a grab for the gauze. She ducks around it. A resigned sigh leaves him as he lifts his arms, sucking in a hiss as the movement causes burned skin to stretch. Omega starts below his left arm first, beginning what he recognizes as a standard wound wrap.

So they had taught her something useful.

He helps by passing it behind his back each time, watching her adjust it into neater lining over the bacta patches. When they run out of roll, she tucks the ends into a decently secure fastening. Crosshair slumps back against the wall, bandaging tight against the slow breath he draws.

“I’m going to send out a message,” Omega murmurs, looking over to the shuttle’s dash. “There’s a specific frequency Tech told me to use if we ever got separated. If I send the coordinates we’re headed toward…”

“They’ll come?” Crosshair’s eye twitches, whether from pain or something else, he’s not entirely sure. He has to close both his eyes against a wave of vertigo a few seconds later

The kid says nothing. The lack of audible movement is the only thing to tell him she hasn’t moved from his side.

Crosshair sighs. “Lower left panel. Don’t—don’t hit any of the pre-programmed ones.”

She lingers a beat longer, then slips away. He’s not sure exactly how long she’s gone. The faint tapping of keys blends into the ambiguous blur that most things seem to be slipping into. Before he can start to make sense of it, she’s shuffling back to his side.

“Done,” she whispers. There’s a soft clatter as she fusses with the discarded medical supplies. Then there’s a bony elbow knocking into his side, and a muttered apology as she squeezes into the limited space on the bench beside him. Crosshair shifts over, suppressing a groan.

“Sorry,” she murmurs again.

“There’s a perfectly good chair right in front of you,” he points out.

She doesn’t say anything. When he peels open one eye, he sees her curled into a tight little ball beside him, face pressed into her knees.

He also sees the dark shadow of a puncture wound coupled with the angry red of electric burns on the back of her neck.

You selfish kriffing idiot. The soothing coolness of the bacta on his chest suddenly feels sickening.

Omega peeks out at him from her knees when he leans forward to grab at the medkit again. She starts to raise her chin when he turns to her with a damp cloth in hand.

“Stay still.” Crosshair nudges her head back down, setting about cleaning and covering the marks on her neck. She remains quiet, but he can feel her tensing at the sting, then easing up as he applies a smaller bacta strip over the wound. It’s the kind that can be held in place by a strip of adhesive tape alone, sparing him the difficulty of wrapping it.

“Thanks,” Omega mumbles when he’s done. She still doesn’t look up, even as he settles back into place beside her.

“You hurt anywhere else?” The question feels cottony on his tongue.

A small shake of her head.

“Try to rest.”

“‘Kay.”

The exhaustion that waits at the end of a marathon of adrenaline reaches for him as he leans back against the durasteel wall. He tries to fight it, but he already knows he’s lost before it wins.

Rain on glass. Hushed whispers. Anxious eyes.

“Something’s wrong with him.”

Heat licking across his face. The roar of an engine. The fire dips lower this time, searing across his chest.

“I wanted to believe it was the chip...”

Freezing waves crashing onto the platform. They douse out the heat, leaving him to fall to his knees, shivering.

“It is in his nature.”

Screaming into the void; no one to answer. He can’t see the stars through the storm clouds. The flames are too bright, drowning out their glow.

“C-cold too,” whispers the blackness.

Help me.

But there’s no one left; they’re all trapped under the waves; ashes drifting up around him; lost in the stars…

Warmth presses in on his side. Not the blazing claws of the fire, but something gentle, soothing. The storm clouds still hang thick and low, but the sun is here, reaching to brush a few of its rays against him.

Crosshair draws a shaky breath. The ice and fire still fights for him, but he drinks in every ounce of the sunlight he can get. The void isn’t as dark, for this is its own form of starlight; close enough to burn away the clouds and bright enough to rival the flames.

There’s a soft rustling, and something is tucked up over his shoulders, covering him.

“‘m here.”

The sensations blur, leaving him to fade back into nothingness.

Consciousness digs its hooks in slowly, pulling him halfway from the haze he wanders. A strange noise drifts in and out of his ears, shifting like a tool hitting metal at different angles.

He can’t get his eyes open, which should probably be more alarming than it is. Mostly, he just feels numb. Hands, feet, chest… He tries to clench the fingers of his right hand, and finds the movement frustratingly delayed and weak.

The noise evens out into a steady electronic chirping. For a moment, it sounds almost like an alarm.

The air is both ice and fire as he draws in a new breath. A soft wheeze escapes his throat, and somehow he knows it leaves his frigid lips as mist.

Despite the numbness, he can detect a difference on his left side. His thoughts are smoke, hazy billows like his exhales. He cannot catch them in order to form reasoning, but instinct guides him to recognize that the slight sensation pressing into him feels like…warmth.

The fingers of his left hand twitch this time, arm creaking forward. It yields a sharp pain in both the limb and his chest, making his breath catch. It also bumps into whatever’s leaning against him—something that shifts at the contact.

No. Someone.

For all he wants to, he still can’t quite muster the strength to open his eyes. Their lids are lead weights, dragging him closer and closer toward the darkness that beckons for him once more.

He ignores the pain as his arm shifts to wrap around the warmth at his side. He feels it—her, his mind randomly supplies from the dark—burrow in closer, the weight of a small arm worming across his chest to hug around his middle.

Crosshair grimaces, uncertainty wrapping around him with it. The chime of the alarm has already shifted back to unorganized nonsense. His thoughts follow its escape through his fingers and into the unknown.

He travels down corridors that twist and turn, but have no end. The heat of a desert world; jagged lines running through glass. Deep brown eyes that stare through him, and the darkness of space, whispering his name. Black that fades to worn, chipped gray. Stars trapped in green glass, and hands that scorch against his skin.

He wants to protest at the last one. They touch his shoulder first, prying between him and something at his side. The seam they create feels wrong, and a groan tries to escape his vocal chords as he feels something important being pulled away from him. It leaves more ice—or is it fire?—in its absence.

Just when he thinks the hands are done, they’re reaching for him again, this time brushing against his face. He’s certain the deceptively careful fingers are leaving brands in his flesh as they slip beneath his jaw to tilt his head up.

His eyes flicker half open. The groan finally escapes him as light stabs hard enough to pierce through his skull. He slams his lids shut again, but not before catching the startled pair of eyes that stare into his own for the split second they are open.

The burning fingers shift against his skin. A muffled voice murmurs words that have no meaning.

Darkness claims him.

Chapter Text

Awareness finds him with the sound of shouting. Voices barking orders, others aruging back. Hands that feel like they’re tearing the very skin off his bones, drawing a ragged cry from the back of his throat.

Burning, burning, then liquid that cools. The voices are lower, as if muffled by water. Is he underwater?

By the time his breath manages to even out, he’s already passing out again.

“…Easy…”

“…Slow down…”

“On your feet, soldier!”

“‘s alright…”

The words swim by like fish below the surface. Or is it above?

Crosshair groans. Had he finally fallen off the platform?

Something shifts to his right. “…condition…stable…”

He senses the hand that reaches for him more than sees it. His own hand darts out, grabbing the scientist’s limb in a crushing grip. Or rather, the strongest one his trembling fingers can manage.

There’s a gasp, then other hands grab his wrist, prying him off. He grits his teeth, not wanting to go out without a fight—

—Darkness.

“…Gonna be ok.”

“…Eh, vod?”

The voices are softer this time. Less tense.

Crosshair twitches at the familiar word. Vod. It sticks out like vivid hues on dull armor, a flicker of warmth within a sea of clinical white.

He has no more time to pick out his blurry, tangled thoughts before a gentle weight is landing on his shoulder, pressing him down into…a bed?

“…Awake?”

Yes, he wants to say, but can’t seem to find his tongue. All that escapes him is a weak moan.

“…’re ok, Cross.”

Confusion grows, even as he feels something warm press into his chest. He can’t tell if it’s corporeal or not—or what the difference would be…

“…Rest.”

Reluctantly, he obeys the order, because that’s what good soldiers do.

Something is wrong.

He knows it the second he wakes, but cannot pinpoint what. There’s softness beneath him—well, as much softness as the GAR allows in its soldiers’ bunks—and he can hear the quiet hum of the Marauder’s hyperdrive, but—

Wait.

Crosshair’s eyes snap open. Then immediately shut against the dim light that feels blinding. He bites back a groan, braces himself, then tries again.

The familiar grin of a skull meets him. It’s the same sight that he had woken to for nearly half the years in his life—up until the past one.

He’s in his bunk.

His old bunk.

He’s already foolishly given himself away by opening his eyes. Not that it makes much of a difference. The sniper makes an attempt at a steadying breath, fighting a grimace as he hears the inevitable sound of someone stirring.

A familiar face swims into view beside his bed. This time, Crosshair does groan, knowing that he is not lucky enough to just be dreaming.

“Kriff,” he creaks out, voice sounding as if he hasn’t had a drop of water in days. Which…maybe he hasn’t. His eyes widen as his mind hits a solid black wall where his last memory should be.

“Good to see you too.” Hunter’s wry voice snaps him back to the highly unpleasant moment he’s stuck in. The di’kut crosses his arms, surveying him with unreadable eyes.

Crosshair narrows his in return. He opens his mouth to assault him with the first withering retort he can think of, when something catches his attention. More specifically, the patchwork of bacta patches covering his upper torso. Something nudges at the back of his mind, but is quickly ignored.

“What’d you do to me?” the sniper growls, glaring up at the older clone as he scrambles to push himself up onto his elbows. His left arm aches at the movement, which isn’t surprising, given that it’s apparently been wrapped in a splint.

A hand on his shoulder halts his progress with frustrating ease. Crosshair bares his teeth, realizing how weak his limbs feel. Had he been through surgery?

“We didn’t do anything to you,” a hint of edge creeps into Hunter’s tone. “This is how we found you. Blastershot to the chest and halfway to being hypothermic.”

Crosshair’s brow furrows as he absorbs his words. There’s just one he gets caught on.

Found…

Smaller hands grabbing his own. The stinging of a clean wound. Warmth at his side.

“The kid,” he hisses.

“Safe,” Hunter says, eyes softening. Crosshair’s gaze shifts to the foot of his bunk. “She already told me a little bit about how you two ended up in that escape pod. But I’d be interested in hearing more. Later, after you’ve rested.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He makes to shove up off the bed again, only to get pushed back down.

“Don’t make me get Wrecker,” Hunter warns.

The sniper scoffs. He gives a tug at the edge of the bandaging covering his torso, noting the shift in the placement of the bacta patches. “My, Tech has really lowered his standards.”

When he looks back up, he expects a scowl, a clenched jaw, something to indicate his needling is working. He doesn’t expect a pinched brow, and eyes that seem to shine with…grief.

The ship’s oxygen levels abruptly feel far too low.

“Actually, Echo was the one to swap those out. Tech…wasn’t available to do it,” Hunter murmurs. He turns, looking over his shoulder.

Tech lies in the bunk across from his, goggles off, eyes shut, skin pale. He has his own wrap of bandaging around the majority of his ribcage, and although the sheets cover his legs, the right one is clearly propped up. Crosshair zeroes in on the slight rise and fall of his chest underneath it all, staring for the duration of three breaths before he can pry his eyes away.

“What happened?”

“Ipoth. He got caught in the orbital strike. Wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t sheltered under a durasteel frame in the compound. Broke his ribs and right leg, but the concussion has been the worst. We…had to put him under for a few days. He hasn’t woken up yet.” Little lines etch themselves into Hunter’s face, eyes remaining fixed on Tech’s still form.

“That’s your excuse for never showing up,” Crosshair mutters.

Hunter looks at him, the lines in his face deepening into something harder. He shakes his head, taking a step back from his bunk.

“We’ll talk later.”

Crosshair’s eyes move from his retreating back to the bunk across from him, then fix to the gray metal of the upper bunk. There’s a few tally marks scratched into the paint next to the skull. He searches his memory, but can’t quite recall what they represent. Maybe he hadn’t been the one to carve them there.

A soft thunk from his right announces a new visitor. Half of an uncertain smile greets him.

“Figured you’d be thirsty,” Echo says, sliding over the glass he had just set down on the crate serving as a makeshift table next to his bed.

Crosshair raises a brow, then accepts it. He gives it a sniff before downing the water, ignoring the reg’s responding eyeroll.

“Yeah, because we’re gonna poison you after using up half a dozen bacta patches on your sorry shebs.” He plants his hand on his hip.

“I wouldn’t put it past you to try to drug me,” Crosshair leers as he lowers the emptied glass. He fumbles it a little setting it down on the crate.

A devious grin twitches onto Echo’s lips. “Nah. That’s what this is for.” Without warning, he reaches over and jabs a med stim into his neck.

The sniper hisses, baring his teeth. Echo grins back, already sauntering away. “Get some rest, Crossy,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears from the bunkroom.

Crosshair curls closer to the wall, lips drawing into a thin line. Within the next few moments, the dull headache he had felt coming on slowly begins to fade. His eyes feel a little heavier, and he starts to wonder just what Echo had given him.

It soon joins the other questions wandering through his mind in growing blurry, and he eventually closes his eyes. The darkness that greets him this time isn’t nearly as deep or cold, and he finds himself drifting between consciousness and sleep.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when a whisper—or an attempt at one—stirs him.

“Why’re you staring at me?” he grouses lowly, prying one eye open to glare at Wrecker’s surprised face.

As if hitting a switch, Wrecker’s expression morphs into a big grin. “Crosshair!” he booms, making the sniper cringe. “Thought you’d never wake up!” His hands dart forward like he’s about to grab him, then stop halfway. He draws them back in, and Crosshair gapes at the uncharacteristic look of discomfort on his face.

“Are you…still working for the Empire?”

Crosshair opens his mouth. Before he can think to form a reply, though, another voice interrupts him.

“Wrecker, he’s still supposed to be resting. Give him some space.” Hunter steps into view behind him. He tosses the larger clone a ration bar as he approaches, which easily puts Wrecker’s grin back in place.

Crosshair isn’t quite expecting the bar that gets held out to him. He snatches it as if it might bite, giving Hunter a wary glance.

To his relief, the ex-Sergeant doesn’t linger. Instead, he turns, crossing to the opposite side of the narrow room and kneeling at Tech’s bedside.

Wrecker visibly deflates, tossing aside his already empty wrapper and moving over to join him. Crosshair watches them for a moment, then takes the opportunity to disentangle himself from the thin sheets neatly tucked around him.

He kicks his legs over the side of the bunk, hunching to sit up without hitting his head on the one above. The sniper climbs to his feet, taking note of the Republic cog printed on the pants he’s wearing. Even without it, the material is tellingly thicker and softer than what he’s grown accustomed to recently.

He catches Hunter watching him out of the corner of his eye as he takes a few experimental steps forward. The drugs lingering in his system come back with a vengeance in the form of a burst of vertigo. Crosshair ignores it, ploughing ahead despite nearly tilting sideways into one of the bunks. No one tries to stop him as he makes his way toward the ‘fresher. He can’t decide if that puts him more or less at ease.

The reflection that greets him in the refresher’s mirror grimaces back at him. The bright overhead light turns his hollow cheekbones and dark under-eye circles into a sight worthy of those awful horror holos Wrecker used to make them watch. He gives the stubble on his jaw a scratch, pulling open the tiny storage compartment beneath the sink. A quick rifle through it yields the surprising discovery that his own hygiene kit is still amid the others’. The grey boxes would be identical, save for the labels plastered on the lids in varying states of tidiness. Tech had implemented that idea after one too many arguments about who might have been using someone else’s toothbrush.

Crosshair digs a razor out of his own, raising a brow as he notes a new addition to the collection: an emptied ration bar box, with a neatly printed “Omega” and scribbled smiley face on it.

He takes a few moments to clean himself up, then treads back out. Not particularly intent on returning to the bunkroom, he wanders into the main cabin of ship.

It feels a bit like watching something beloved through the impassivity of a scope—everything about it aches with familiarity, yet seems distant at the same time. His fingers wander up to trail over a new set of tally marks carved beside what Echo had nicknamed the ‘crashlanding seats.’ Whoever they’re doing missions for, they’ve been busy. A deep inhale makes his nose wrinkle as he glances at the holoterminal. It seems the smell will always be a constant.

The shifting of fabric draws his gaze to another major change. Bright orange curtains hang around the entrance to the turret station. They’re drawn back just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the small space inside.

Omega sits up from a nest of blankets, blinking owlishly. It occurs to Crosshair that this must be her ‘room’—an impractical alteration to the weapon’s accessibility, but probably the best private space they could come up with.

He looks away, making to slip away before the kid might see him. As he’s turning, the curtains rustle.

“Hunter?”

His shoulders slump as he slowly turns back to face her, a denial on his tongue. Before he can fully face her, the kid gasps. Her feet nearly miss the steps as she clambers down, plowing straight for him like a charging mudhorn.

“Gngh!” he yelps as she tackles him, staggering at the impact.

“Crosshair!” Her arms squeeze around his middle, strong enough to hold him in place. The sniper grits his teeth, arms awkwardly hovering on either side of her.

“What’s going on in here?” Hunter’s voice draws his attention to where he and Wrecker have appeared in the doorway. A scuffle from the cockpit indicates that Echo has come to investigate as well.

Hunter’s eyes widen at the sight of Omega, reaching out a hand for her as he draws closer. “Omega? Are you alright?”

To Crosshair’s horror, the kid gives a sniffle. “Y-yeah,” she manages, pulling back from him and giving an attempt at a watery grin in Hunter’s direction. A wobble in her lip betrays her. “I just— I was worried…”

Crosshair’s brows draw together, lips parting silently. Hunter advances to pull the kid into his own arms, rubbing a soothing hand on her back as her shoulders shake silently. Then his eyes turn on Crosshair, their sharp gleam making the sniper’s hackles rise.

“What did you do?”

“What?”

“You heard me. What did you say to upset her?”

“Nothing,” Crosshair hisses. “She’s the one who decided to barrel into me!”

Hunter gently passes the kid on to Wrecker and Echo, rising to his full height. “You sure you didn’t do something while you had her locked up in prison?”

Crosshair sees red. Before he can get in Hunter’s face—show him what he really thinks of him and his kriffing accusations—a different voice halts him in his tracks.

“Stop it!”

All eyes snap to Omega. Her brown eyes blaze as she scrubs a quick hand under them, pulling away from Wrecker and stepping between them. Crosshair feels a jolt of shock as she turns to face Hunter.

“I told you, Crosshair helped me. He never tried to hurt me—not once! He was the one who got us out of there!”

All four men instinctively take a step forward as the kid rights her footing against a slight sway. She holds up a hand, waving them off. “I’m fine,” she mutters, giving another sniffle. “Just…please stop fighting.”

Hunter’s face has fallen far beyond any level Crosshair has ever managed to push it. The ex-Sergeant locks eyes with him, before looking back to the kid.

“I’m sorry, Omega.”

She nods, swallowing. Wrecker steps forward, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and guiding her back toward her bed. Echo follows close behind. She sends a last look back to Crosshair as they help her up inside her room.

Then it’s just the two of them.

“That was…” Hunter falters, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Don’t waste your breath.” Crosshair shoves past him on his way out of the room.

Once shielded from prying eyes in the bunkroom, some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. He lowers himself to sit on the edge of his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he rubs a tired hand over his face.

He peers from between his fingers at the silent figure resting across from him. A soft huff leaves him.

“‘Least you can’t bother me like this.”

There is, of course, no reply. Crosshair pinches the bridge of his nose, reaching over and snatching up the ration bar he had abandoned earlier. A small, petty part of him wants to crush it up; show Hunter that he doesn’t need a kriffing thing from them.

The pang of hunger making its way through his stomach eventually wins out. Besides, he’ll need his strength when he gets out of here and tries to figure out what to do next—a day which cannot come soon enough.

He takes a bite of the bar. It’s dust on his tongue, making it nearly impossible to swallow. He glances over, and finds that the glass at his bedside had been refilled while he was sleeping. Leaning over to snatch it up, he turns back to Tech, lifting it with a bitter smile on his lips.

“To family,” he says, and takes a long drink back.

Chapter Text

The Marauder touches down on a planet skirting the edges of the Bright Jewel System. It’s your standard 99% uninhabited affair, boasting a name that’s a couple of letters and numbers smashed together, and no resources valuable enough to draw any real attention.

It’s also somewhere to keep Crosshair away from whatever kind of setup the Batch has on Ord Mantell.

“I think we should let AZI look at him,” Omega’s soft voice had stirred him from sleep the night cycle before, drifting over from Tech’s bedside. Crosshair had kept still, eyes closed and breathing steady.

“He already did, while you were missing,” Hunter murmurs back. “We’ve been following his instructions.” Crosshair imagines him indicating the IV bag and monitor.

“I know. I just don’t understand why we can’t go back.”

“We will. Just…not yet.” The weight of his gaze prickles against the side of the sniper’s face. “Come on,” Hunter mutters, the soft pad of their footsteps leaving the room.

The satisfying click of his rifle’s muzzle slipping back into place draws him out of the memory. For all their paranoia, there was one absurd oversight they had made: Crosshair still has his weapon. He had found it in its usual spot beneath his bunk, charges loaded into it and everything. A foolish mistake on their part, he thinks, even as he sets aside his cleaning kit and puts the rifle back where he found it.

The silence throughout the ship tells him that he’s its sole occupant at the moment. Well, the only conscious one, he thinks with a glance at Tech. Everyone else had departed to scope out the landing site.

Shoving to his feet, Crosshair pads out of the bunkroom. He fiddles with the sleeves of his borrowed shirt, the loose burgundy material tickling his wrists. Much like the other provisions, it had been waiting beside him when he woke up. The clothing provides no protection, but he decides it’s a better alternative to the two sets of armor that had been waiting with his rifle under his bunk. They had kept his spare set. Although he would never admit it, finding his old helmet staring out at him beside the Imperial one had made his pulse jump.

As he passes the open boarding ramp, Crosshair slows, scanning the terrain beyond. Bright sunlight makes him squint, its rays highlighting tall golden grass that ripples like waves in the breeze. He can see the edge of a forest lining the field, its dark leaves and shadows a welcome reprieve from the glare directly outside.

The sniper continues on past the glimpse of scenery, making his way into the cockpit. He leans back in the copilot’s seat, slipping a toothpick between his teeth and staring out the viewport. A mountain range sweeps across the horizon, inviting his eyes across its sloping lines.

The stillness of the moment does not reflect in his mind. The question that has lingered in the back of his thoughts slips back into focus.

Where was he going to go?

Nothing waits beyond this planet’s hazy atmosphere. No demanding superiors, no messy barracks, no mission, no cause.

Maybe it should feel freeing.

Crosshair shakes his head. What he really needs is somewhere to lay low and try to figure out what to do; who he’s supposed to be now that his lifelong identity as a soldier had been stripped away.

And for what?

As if summoned by the thought, a small figure wanders into view outside. The shadow of the bruise still lingers, but the return of warmth to Omega’s complexion is apparent as she turns her face up to the sun. A smile touches her lips, eyes sliding shut.

Crosshair lets out a slow breath, gaze dropping. He twirls the toothpick between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the ship’s dash and considering how easy it would be to power the systems up. Open a comm channel. Doom them all.

He scoffs. Outside, the kid plucks up a stock of grass, using its tufty end to playfully jab at Wrecker. The big oaf clutches the spot, staggering backwards before keeling over with a dramatic yell.

Crosshair rolls his eyes, tensing as a shrill beeping cuts through the silence. He swivels in his chair, peering down the length of the ship.

The pound of feet on the boarding ramp heralds Echo’s arrival. He nearly smacks into a wayward crate as he skids around the corner, heading straight toward the bunkroom.

Crosshair shoves to his feet, falling in behind Wrecker, Hunter, and Omega, albeit at a much slower pace. It’s a tight fit with everyone crowding into the room, and Echo jabs his scomp back at them, hissing, “Give us some space.” Then—as everyone stares expectantly—“He’s waking up!”

“Don’t crowd him,” Hunter whispers, elbowing his way closer. It lets Crosshair peer around Wrecker enough to catch a glimpse of Tech’s pinched face.

“Tech?” Echo says softly, hovering at their brother’s side. “Can you hear me?”

For a long moment, there’s no reply. Then comes a faint groan. “Quite loudly, ‘m ‘fraid. Audi’ory…sens’ivity” Tech’s brow furrows, eyes peeling open. “Enhanc’d.”

Wrecker snickers at his slurring. Hunter sends him a glare.

Echo runs a scanner over him, eyes flying across its readout. He swaps it out for a light to inspect his eyes a moment later (to which Tech groans again), then double checks his IV. “He…seems ok. Vitals stable; brain activity normal. Well, his level of normal.”

Tech mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “exceptional.”

Crosshair rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. In front of him, Omega gives a sigh of relief. Wrecker fist pumps the air. “Yes!” He cheers as softly as he can as Hunter gives him another warning look.

Echo gently maneuvers Tech’s goggles on his face. He blinks sluggishly as he pulls back, scanning across the other clones packed into the room. On the first pass, he doesn’t seem to notice anything different. Then his eyes snag back to Crosshair. He squints.

“Ah. Cr’ss.”

The sniper’s lips remain thin. A dull ache spreads through his left bicep from where his fingers clench around the muscle.

“Good t’have you b’ck.”

Crosshair blinks. Hunter, Echo, Wrecker, and Omega all look back toward him.

Tech gives the faint hint of a smile, then tries to pass back out despite Echo’s protests.

“…injured in an escape pod.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily put it past the Empire to inflict it as part of a plan. Trick Omega into thinking she’s being rescued, wait for her to lead them right to us…”

“And him filling the shabuir who hurt her with a couple of blaster holes was fake?” Echo pauses. “I can’t believe I’m the only one defending him.”

“You know I want to trust him as much as you do.” A deep sigh. “But after everything, I just don’t want to rush in and risk putting Omega in danger again.”

“May I point out that there has been no indication of him harboring his previous level of animosity toward us?” Tech’s voice sounds tired. A soft clang of metal suggests he’s fiddling with the makeshift crutches they had crafted. “It is true he is distant and cold, but that is not out of the usual parameters of Crosshair’s behavior. He has neither attempted to bypass the primitive blockade you created in the comm system nor tried to harm any of us since his arrival.”

“Well, other than nearly tackling Hunter when he accused him of hurting Omega,” Echo mutters.

“Omega trusts him.” Wrecker’s low rumble replies. “‘Says he was on her side from the start. That’s good enough for me.”

“Yes, but Omega is very forgiving by nature—”

“And we shouldn’t be?”

Silence. Crosshair’s teeth snag the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Hunter speaks again.

“I want to be. We…should be. But we also need to exercise some level of caution. I want everything to go back to normal as much as every one of you. But we have to keep our guard up.”

“The very nature of forgiveness is trust. It will be difficult to achieve one while the other does not stand. Crosshair will sense this too.”

“We’re not going to push him away.”

“Just keep him at arm’s length?”

Hunter replies to that, but the words are muffled as Crosshair rolls over. The sniper snatches the pillow from beneath his head, pressing it over his ear. He studies a mark on the wall a few inches from his face, wondering why the knot in his chest feels so tight.

This is no slap in the face or ambush in the dark. He had been expecting it, waiting with shields firmly raised. His bones might be rattling, but the blow could not strike true.

He wouldn’t let it.

The next day dawns with a pounding headache behind his eyes.

Crosshair drags himself directly toward the ‘mess hall’—a portable caf machine and cooling unit stuffed into one corner of the ship’s cargo section. The other bunks lie empty, but he fortunately doesn’t run into anyone on the way there. He doesn’t feel above physically assaulting anyone standing between him and his caf.

The carafe already sits two-thirds empty. He pours the remaining caf into the only clean mug, avoiding the sharp chip in the handle from when it became a victim of Tech’s piloting skills. Its earthy smell carries a hint of sweetness, drawing a deep inhale from him.

Cold hands around a warm mug. Laughter in his ears. “Don’t make that face. Different doesn’t automatically mean bad, y’know.”

Crosshair glances over his shoulder in the direction of the boarding ramp. The thought of glaring sunlight guides him to sit down on a nearby box of ammunition, melding with the shadows of the hold.

He’s only three sips in to his plain black brew when a shuffle draws his attention to a new presence. A sleepy grin greets him.

“‘Morning,” Omega says, passing by and making a beeline for the cooler. She pries open its lid, digging through the contents until she pulls a small circular container out.

Crosshair watches as she grabs one of their few pieces of cutlery: a decorative spoon Wrecker had insisted on buying at a marketplace on Naboo. Its handle is made out of the silhouettes of Gungan warriors, while the rounded top holds the rich blue of one of their ‘boomas.’

“Are you hungry?” Omega looks up from where’s she’s peeling the thin wrapper off the container.

“No.”

“Ok. If you change your mind, you can help yourself to one of these.” She gives the container a little wave, scooping a bite of pale orange goop from it.

To Crosshair’s dismay, she hops up on one of the crates opposite from his. The sniper takes a long sip from his caf, avoiding her gaze.

“How’ve your injuries been feeling?”

“Fine,” he mutters, allowing his eyes the brief reprieve of slipping shut.

“That’s good. Echo said that’s probably going to be all better by tomorrow,” she points at his chest. “But he said you have to wear the splint a bit longer. Does it hurt?”

Crosshair gives a noncommital grunt. The fracture on his forearm was hairline. The most annoying thing about it so far was the lack of mobility—an issue that made a prickle of unease run through him each time he considered how limited his aim would be right now.

“Have you been outsi—”

“Kid,” he holds up a hand. “I’m not much in the mood for chit chat today.”

Omega blinks. “Ok. I can be quiet too.”

She goes back to eating her breakfast, and Crosshair drinks his caf. At first, the silence settles between them with an air of serenity. The longer it drags on, though, the more it seems to grow into a yawning chasm.

By the time his mug sits half empty, he finds himself thoroughly aggravated by every echoing scrape of Omega’s spoon.

“What is that?” At her questioning glance, he gestures toward the container.

“Meiloorun yogurt. Tech said we should get it because it’s ‘rich in probiotics.’ I just think it tastes really good.” She grins.

Crosshair gives a soft huff. Then scowls.

What are you doing?

“What’s wrong?” Omega asks, lowering her spoon.

“Nothing,” he mutters. The sniper stands, chugging the last of his caf before setting the mug down behind him. The ache in his temples digs deeper.

Omega calls after him as he turns to leave. Crosshair ignores her.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the boarding ramp. It’s already lowered, a startled Echo nearly smacking into him as Crosshair steps down.

“Oh, hey. Have you seen—”

Crosshair shoves past him. He squints against the light, long grass brushing past his shins as he heads for the treeline in the distance.

To his increasing ire, two other pairs of footsteps soon catch up to him.

“Crosshair.”

The sniper stops dead as a hand catches his shoulder. His fingernails dig into his palm.

“Where are you going?”

He whirls on Hunter with enough force to dislodge his grip. “To call in my Imperial reinforcements,” he sneers, savoring the surprise that writes itself on the older clone’s face. It quickly retreats behind a tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

“Cross—” Echo takes a step forward behind Hunter, brows furrowed.

“Back. Off,” he snarls. “Before I find your off switch.”

Echo’s eyes widen, then narrow to match Hunter’s.

In the distance, Wrecker comes to stand on the Marauder’s ramp. Tech and Omega peer from the shadows behind him, the former barring her path outside with one crutch.

Crosshair takes them all in. Sharp ridges, narrowed eyes, all facing against him.

He scowls, turning away.

This time, no one tries to stop him as he stalks across the field. He can feel their eyes burning into his back all the way into the trees.

Chapter Text

The rustle of leaves beneath Crosshair’s feet seems to echo off the forest’s trees. Only the whisper of the breeze accompanies the trespassing sound. If he pauses, he can hear his own heart beating. Some of the weight gradually eases from his shoulders as he wanders between the occasional patch of underbrush.

He’ll have to return to the Marauder at some point. As much as he is loathe to admit it, it’s his only ride to a planet with an actual space port. Plus, he wants his Firepuncher. And maybe to put a few holes in their hull just for good measure.

He slows to run a hand over the rough bark of a tree. The sniper tilts his head back, studying the sprawling branches reaching far above him.

A small, foolish part of him wishes he could just stay in this wilderness forever. Hunt and forage for every meal; let every kriffed up thing inside meld into the natural stillness. Never worry about another sentient being, or find himself bound to another’s service.

The tree he touches stands taller than all the others around it. He eyes one of its lower branches.

The grooves in the bark make it easy to get a foothold. With a shove, he pulls himself off the ground, awkwardly scrambling up until he can reach the branch. From there, it’s a simple matter of pulling himself up. He hisses softly at the discomfort that twinges in his healing arm, but otherwise ignores the pain, already eyeing the next branch up.

Within five minutes, he’s as high as the thinning upper branches will allow him. The sniper settles on one with a slight dip in it, leaning back up against the tree’s trunk as he stares into the leafy sea surrounding him. The branch sits just below the forest’s canopy, shielding against the full force of the sun but allowing little flecks of light in through the leaves. Crosshair lets out a low sigh as the warmth dances across his face, breathing some of the color back into his sun-starved skin. He leans his head back against the trunk, eyes coaxed shut.

The sun no longer touches his face when he next opens them. Crosshair lowers his chin, rubbing at a crick in his neck.

For a moment, he believes he stirred on his own. A rustle from below makes his eyes narrow.

“Crosshair.”

Without looking down, he reaches over to one of the smaller branches next to him. During his earlier climb, he had to duck around several bunches of lumpy, toughened fruit growing on the tree. Not very appealing, by the look of it.

A startled grunt sounds below as he hits his target dead-on.

It did make for good projectiles, though.

“Cross.” Hunter sounds irritated now. The sniper doesn’t deign to glance down at him. “Can you come down here?”

“Kriff off.”

A sigh. Then, the sound of a boot scuffing on bark.

That has him leaning over. Hunter only has one foot planted on the trunk, the other still on the ground. The kriffer had just been trying to get his attention. He looks up, locking eyes with Crosshair just as he raises his next ammunition.

“Wait.” Hunter reaches back, unslinging a familiar object from his back. Crosshair’s eyes narrow further.

Hunter winces as the fruit smacks into his breastplate. He raises a brow. “Careful. You could end up hitting this instead.” He gives the Firepuncher a tantilizing wave.

“As if. Now leave the gun and kriff off.”

“You’re going to have to come down here to get it.” He manages to duck the third fruit this time. “Can you stop pelting me with fruit?”

“Leave me alone and I’ll consider it.”

“Just come down here. Please.”

“Begging. And here I thought you could sink no lower.”

Hunter sets his jaw. Crosshair’s frigid smirk only grows.

“It’s not wise to arm your enemies, Hunter,” he pushes. “Who knows where that rifle’s aim might end up?”

Rather than the explosion he hopes for, all he gets is a frustrated scowl.

“Good thing we’re not enemies then.”

“That’s not what I’ve been hearing.”

“I…know.”

Silence creeps between them.

His older brother glances back up at him. He lifts the Firepuncher from where it slumped to his side, flipping it over to hold it out in an open palm.

“Here,” he says quietly. “I only brought this to give it to you.”

Crosshair eyes him suspiciously. Slowly, he swings himself off the side of the branch, dropping lightly down to the next. When he’s reached the one just above Hunter’s head, he extends a hand down, making an impatient grab for the rifle as his brother begins to lift it.

In hindsight, he really should have seen what was coming.

The second before his fingers can brush his favored weapon, Hunter lunges up and snags his wrist. Crosshair hisses, attempting to wrench his limb out of his strong grip. It nearly causes him to lose his balance on his precarious perch.

The bastard has the audacity to smirk. “While you’re down here, though…I could use your help.”

“Let go, you shabuir, before I make you regret the day you popped out of your growth tube!”

Surprisingly, Hunter obeys. He shoves his rifle up toward him. Crosshair snatches it up with a sneer.

“I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than help you.”

“Fair enough. But wouldn’t you rather shoot something else? Namely, something we can eat?”

Crosshair eyes him from his peripheral as he inspects his weapon.

“I’m out here to hunt,” his brother leans back against the tree trunk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I’d appreciate an extra set of eyes. And your aim.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be the one exceptionally gifted at…hunting?”

Hunter’s lips give a telltale twitch upwards. “C’mon. At the very least, you get the catharsis of shooting something.”

“I could get that right now, too.” He gives him a withering smile.

Hunter appears to resist heaving another sigh. “Alright, fine. I guess that hit you took did look pretty nasty. I understand if you’re not up to the task.”

Crosshair’s feet hit the ground the second he turns his back. He meets the triumphant gleam in his eye with a look that would freeze anyone else in their tracks.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

It doesn’t matter that he’s rising to the bait. The game has changed. This isn’t just about pushing all of them away where they belong. This is about proving a point. Showing Hunter how unaffected he is by their cutting words. Showing him how nothing can change.

If the di’kut believes this is going to lead toward some kind of forgiveness—or, stars forbid, bonding—then he is sorely mistaken. And if there’s anything Crosshair loves, it’s shoving people’s faces in just how wrong they are.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Hunter says. He faces Crosshair fully. “Which direction?”

Crosshair’s eyes flash. “What are you playing at?”

“What do you mean?” Hunter blinks, face blank.

“You know very well what I mean. ‘Which direction.’”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. There’s hundreds of animals in these woods, spanning every direction. Way I see it, we’ll nab something no matter which one we go. So pick one.”

Sniper and Sergeant glare at each other. Crosshair gives him another icy smile, tearing his eyes away to the woods behind Hunter.

“Fine,” he says, taking a few long strides forward. “This way.”

It’s obvious that letting him lead is the first step in whatever half-baked plan Hunter has come up with. Probably an attempt to get him to believe he’s demonstrating trust. It’s insulting. Pathetic. And he’s going to follow right along with it.

The two men quicken their pace as they weave between the trees. Both avoid the thicker underbrush, feet light on the dead leaves and twigs that scatter the ground. Crosshair slows to a halt as he catches a difference in some of the undergrowth. The thin branches of a few bushes have been plowed away, like something big pushed its way through them.

“Omega tells me you were in charge of questioning her.”

Here we go.

“She also told me that you two ended up talking. A lot.”

Crosshair’s jaw sets. He begins to creep forward through the cleared trail.

Behind him, Hunter snaps off one of the thin branches lining the makeshift path. Either they’re on a good trail, or he’s just choosing to stay silent and waste both their time.

Crosshair pauses as the trail forks just before the patch of undergrowth ends. He scowls.

“You have anything to add to that?”

“You mean my side of the story?” Irritation bubbles up before he can hold it in. “I haven’t laid a finger on that kid. No matter what you’ve decided to believe.”

“I know.” A pause. Somewhere in the distance, a bird whistles a few mournful notes. “After Caller, I…wasn’t sure what to expect.”

Crosshair blinks, squinting at the two trails. He selects the left trajectory, resuming his pace.

“You still had that chip in your head up until Bracca.”

That makes him bite back a low growl. Had anything they’d discussed been kept in confidence? He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that she had immediately run and told Hunter. The kid practically worshiped the ground the di’kut walked on. Besides, he had never meant to tell her that anyway. It had just…slipped out.

“I suspected something similar. That’s why I asked you on Kamino.” He just won’t shut up. “I don’t believe you would have done what you did without one.”

“Certain of that, are you?”

“Yeah. Pretty damn certain.” Hunter’s pace slows behind him. A glance back shows him pulling a tuft of fur off a branch that Crosshair had already noted as he passed.

“I wouldn’t be,” Crosshair says darkly.

“You saved Omega.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something.”

“It does. The last time I saw you, you swore undying loyalty to the Empire. You wouldn’t even consider defecting. What changed?”

Without a reply, Crosshair takes off again, Hunter hot on his heels.

Just when he’s starting to believe he might have lost the trail, he nearly steps directly in the next clue of animal activity. Crosshair wrinkles his nose at the pile of dung inches from his boot, but notes that it is recent. Hunter comes up behind him, peering over his shoulder. The sniper jerks away, moving forward again.

“If you stick your fingers in that, I’m reconsidering my decision to shoot you.”

Hunter grumbles something under his breath, but follows after him. “We’re close,” he murmurs a few moments later, just before Crosshair spots a clearing in the trees ahead.

Both clones drop into a crouch as they grow near the clearing’s edge. Crosshair scans the surrounding terrain until he spots a suitable vantage point: shielded yet not too dense. He kneels on fallen leaves, unslinging his Firepuncher. Hunter joins him on his right as he peers through the scope, inspecting the herd of animals occupying the open space beyond.

The creatures resemble some sort of deer, though with the added features of long, droopy ears and curly, spring-like tails. Their fur varies in shades of green, blending with the verdant plantlife surrounding them.

Crosshair begins dragging his scope across the herd, scanning the lineup of animals. Some look old or sick—tough meat or risk of infection—while others vary in size. He pauses on one that looks adequetely juicy. Carefully, he reaches up, adjusting the focus as he lines up the shot.

His finger has just moved to rest on the trigger when a flicker of movement catches his eye. A tiny head pokes up to peer over his target’s other side. The creature’s offspring, Crosshair realizes as a smaller version of the animal rounds to the side facing him.

The parent shifts, causing him to meticulously realign his aim over where he assumes the heart would be. As he does, the smaller one rears up to the center of the crosshair, grabbing hold of its parent’s floppy ear and tugging. The elder pulls it free with an annoyed flick.

Crosshair blinks, the window for the shot slowly slipping through his fingers as the animal turns and meanders in the other direction. Beside him, Hunter shifts his weight, right hand clenched tight where it rests on his knee. He watches it as intently as Crosshair watches their prey, brows drawn together.

Ignoring him, Crosshair resumes moving his rifle across the herd. His aim pauses on the last in line. A straggler. A decent amount of meat clings to its bones. It stands a few paces apart from the other animals, its antlered head bowed to graze. Crosshair watches, waiting for it to turn left or right so he can get a good angle in.

The weight of a hand on his shoulder makes him tense, fingers jerking against the focus that he had been turning just so. The animal dissolves into a blur. Crosshair looks up from his scope, meeting Hunter’s gaze with murder in his eyes.

“Are you trying to make me miss?”

“No.” His eyes shift to the side. “I’m…”

The words trail into silence. Crosshair curls his lip, turning to peer back down his weapon. It takes a moment for his hands to resume their trained steadiness. When he turns the focus back into clarity, he sees that his target has finally turned, exposing its side to his aim. The sniper shifts his namesake to hover over the animal—then nearly groans as a subtle shift grabs his attention from the shot yet again.

A different kind of creature hunches low in the grass behind his quarry. Its feline body and predatory crouch immediately tell him that he’s not the only one with his sights set on the deer-like animal.

“Kriff,” he hisses, just as the thing rears up on its hind legs and lets out a blood-curdling screech.

The deer scatter. The predator’s roar swallows their sharp alarm calls, the larger creature lunging after them. Crosshair’s aim centers on its striped grey side. He fires once, then again as it only yowls in rage.

“Dank Farrik,” Hunter mutters as burning orange eyes penetrate the foliage to land on them. The older clone palms his own blaster. With all pretense of stealth gone up in smoke, both men open fire on the creature as it crosses the clearing in a few swift bounds.

Crosshair hits it between the eyes just as it lunges for them. The animal’s snarl dies in its throat, body skidding into the bushes just a few paces from their position.

Their weapons slowly lower as one, both letting out a shaky exhale.

Pulling his jumbled nerves back together, Crosshair casts a glance over the clearing. The deer are, of course, long gone.

A muttered curse leaves him. “Why would it choose to scare them like that before it could pounce? Stupid creature.” He nudges the animal’s limp paw with his boot.

“Crosshair.”

The sniper’s attention drags back to his unfortunate companion. Hunter’s shoulders remain a tense line as he jams his blaster back into its holster, taking a step closer.

Crosshair’s lips tug into a scowl. “Alright, let’s hear it.” He slings his Firepuncher back over his shoulder. “What is it that you’re so clearly dying to say? You’re wasting both of our time, you kn—”

“I was wrong.”

Crosshair stares.

“About how you’d treat Omega. About whose side you’re on. And…for leaving you behind on that landing pad. Or in that hangar.”

Here he takes a breath, eyes finally flickering up from where they’d been locked on Crosshair’s shoulder.

“I knew you had that chip in your head the first time, and I still left you. I should have fought harder, made finding you my first priority.

“I’m not going to pretend it excuses all of your actions. Not the choices you made on your own. But you’re not the only one who’s made mistakes. And…I’m sorry.”

The silence that descends is thick enough to cut with a knife. Hunter’s gaze moves beyond him. The expression on his face looks foreign on his features. If Crosshair didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked…lost.

It feels like several small eternities later before his reply finally breaks the silence.

“Alright.”

Hunter looks up. “‘Alright?’”

“Alright, I’ve heard your apology.” The sniper crosses his arms, slipping a toothpick between his teeth within the same gesture. At his continued gaping, he raises a brow. “You didn’t actually expect that to fix any of this, did you?”

Yes, the flicker of hurt in his eyes whispers, even as he answers, “No.”

“Good.” Crosshair pops the toothpick out of his mouth, looking off into the trees. “Because it doesn’t. I’m not sure I will ever be able to forgive you.”

Hunter’s shoulders give the smallest wilt. He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but pauses. His eyes narrow.

Before Crosshair can glare back, Hunter springs toward him, tackling him to the ground. The sniper wheezes as the full brunt of his weight lands on top of him, rigid armor digging into skin still tender from his wound.

He’s in the process of sucking the breath back into his lungs—and gearing up to fight, because what the kriff, he was going to apologize then immediately try to kill him?—when the older clone rolls off him, vibroblade flashing in the evening light as he whirls to face something to Crosshair’s right.

The sniper swivels his head around, adrenaline spiking as he takes in the crouching animal not three paces from them. It’s a duplicate of the one lying dead in the clearing beyond, and judging by the creature’s bared teeth, he guesses it’s not too happy with the loss of its kin.

Crosshair’s hand flies to where his deecee should be. Finding it absent, he promptly scrambles to sit up and reach for his Firepuncher. The animal hisses at the movement, eyes lingering on him as its tail lashes in agitation.

Hunter has already drawn his own blaster, switching his vibroblade to his left hand. Much like the creature, he tenses at Crosshair’s movement.

“Hold still!” he orders. Crosshair risks taking his eyes off the animal to give him an incredulous glare. The animal’s gaze fixes on the older clone as well, drawn by the sound of his voice.

He’s not Crosshair’s commander anymore. Since when would he take orders from him? Even as the thought runs through his head, his fingers pause where they barely brush his weapon.

The creature lets out another aggravated hiss. Its eyes stay locked on Hunter, his upright position and lifted weapons making him the bigger threat. Crosshair’s hand twitches back toward his rifle again.

“Don’t,” Hunter says, voice softer this time. His gaze stays locked with the animal’s, unblinking.

Crosshair can pinpoint the second the creature’s muscles start to tense. Orders be damned, he snatches the rifle from behind his back, clumsily jerking it around just as it decides to lunge.

Hunter fires. His knife flashes toward the animal’s massive skull as it tackles him to the ground, arms coming up to shield his face.

Crosshair barely has to take aim before he’s putting several lasers into the feline’s side. Hunter lets out a muffled yelp from beneath the thing’s weight. The creature replies with a snarl.

Crosshair keeps shooting. The thing just doesn’t seem to care; just won’t kriffing die—

The next growl abruptly pitches up into a pained howl, before cutting off with a crunch. The animal’s body goes rigid. It seems to tilt in slow motion, slumping over its prey in a limp heap.

A gasp comes from beneath it.

Sharp twigs and stones cut into his knees as he drops to the animal’s side, heaving to push the dead weight off him. One of Hunter’s arms pops up to help him, the older clone rolling out from beneath the corpse as they finally shift it off him enough.

Crosshair’s eyes widen as he glances up. A dark red sheen covers his breastplate, dripping down his neck in rivulets. Hunter lifts a glistening hand, but rather than reaching for his throat, he grabs hold of his knife’s hilt where it protrudes from the creature’s neck. With one hard pull, it rips free. A flood of matching crimson follows its departure, further coating his glove.

Oh.

“You good?” Hunter glances up at him, left hand gingerly prodding at the spot over his ribs. He takes a deep breath, seeming to land on a positive diagnosis.

“You idiot.”

“Sorry?” Hunter looks up from inspecting his right arm, wincing as he floats a few fingers over the inside of his upper arm and elbow.

Crosshair picks out the sheen of blood soaking the blacks peeking through the gaps in his armor. Hunter sets to work at prying the pieces off, eyes pinching as he unveils the claw marks on his arm.

“Venomous?” Crosshair asks sharply, inching closer as he busies his own hands with digging through a pouch on his belt.

Hunter lets out a slow exhale, then brings the wound to his nose. He grimaces, whether just from the scent of blood or something far worse, Crosshair can’t tell.

“No,” he decides after another deep inhale. “Why am I an idiot?”

“Making yourself a target like that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Hunter gives him half a pained smirk.

Crosshair doesn’t answer, too busy pulling out the desired item. Hunter raises a brow at the roll of gauze he lifts up.

“Since when do you…?”

“Since Echo pestered me into changing my bandaging,” Crosshair grouses.

He hums, lifting the limb higher in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “You were a real treat to him earlier, by the way.”

Crosshair waves off his reach for the edge of his sleeve, grasping the material himself and rolling it up. When he reaches the scratch marks, he’s careful to stretch the fabric up and away from his arm so as not to brush against the open wound.

Hunter hisses through his teeth as the extent of the injury is revealed. Not deep enough to cut into any major blood vessels, but deep enough to hurt like a kriffer.

“Wait,” Hunter’s hand stops him as he moves to start wrapping his arm. “I’m not really keen on getting an infection from wherever that thing’s claws have been.”

“What do I look like, a medic?” Crosshair scowls, trying to maneuver around his hand.

“Check my pack. There might be something of use in it.”

Hunter’s grimace doesn’t seem to be from pain now. Curious, Crosshair rounds to his other side, shoving through the neat piles of supplies in his pack without removing it from his shoulders.

One eyebrow pulls up as he extracts a small flask from its bottom. “Seriously?”

“Post-mission celebration,” Hunter shrugs. “It was a gift from a friend.”

Crosshair unscrews the lid, giving it a sniff. “It’ll do.”

Without ceremony, he grabs Hunter’s arm, and dumps the amber liquid onto his wound. Hunter lets out a yelp, giving him a pissed look.

“Amazing how many problems that stuff can solve,” Crosshair smirks. He enjoys the look of alarm that starts to write itself across Hunter’s face before asking, “What kind of ‘friendship’ are we talking?”

“The kind that’s profitable.” Hunter watches from the corner of his eye as Crosshair starts sopping up the area around the wound with a torn-off piece of his sleeve. Satisfied, the sniper snatches the gauze back up. Hunter tries to take it, but he bats him off once again.

“As fun as it is to watch you struggle, I’m not really keen on being here forever.” Hunter’s lips press thin, but he slowly shifts to allow him to reach around his arm. “Am I to assume such a lucrative relationship would originate from Ord Mantell?”

“Maybe.”

Crosshair sends him a narrowed glance before looking back to his work.

He secures the last of the bandaging, giving it a few experimental pokes before pulling his hands back. The bleeding has been satisfactorily quelled, at least until they can get back to the ship where it can be taken care of properly.

Hunter gingerly pulls his arm back to his side, floating a hand over a patch of uneven rows. A soft chuckle leaves him.

“For all your accuracy with a blaster, you’ve never been the neatest medic.”

He only gets a scoff in reply. Crosshair climbs to his feet. Hunter busies himself with gathering the discarded pieces of his armor, slipping them into his pack. He shrugs it back on, making to push up from where he’s sitting in the dirt, but pauses at the sight of the hand that’s held out before him.

Slowly, he reaches up, and grasps his forearm, allowing Crosshair to help pull him up to his feet. Hunter gives him the smallest hint of a smile.

Crosshair drops his arm, ignoring the twist in his gut as he surveys the dead animal spread out beside them.

“So much for dinner,” Hunter comments with a glance at the empty clearing in front of them, then the low angle of the sun through the trees. “Guess we’re just eating whatever the others have managed to forage.”

Crosshair leans closer to inspect the carcass. He gives the creature’s flank a poke. It’s mostly muscle, but there’s some level of softness in there. He wrinkles his nose.

“Not necessarily.”

It takes a great deal of finagling—both of them have an injured arm, after all—but after several moments of bickering, they find a manageable way to support the creature’s weight between them.

Of course, that method involves dragging it along the forest floor—blaster-charred side down, of course—but its thick skin seems to prevent it from taking too much damage.

“Maybe this’ll tenderize it,” Hunter had sighed as its head bounced off a rock.

Halfway back to the ship, Crosshair slows his pace. Hunter naturally has to slow as well, adjusting his hold on one of the creature’s back legs.

“There’s something you should know. About the kid.”

One ink-encased brow raises. “What do you mean?”

Crosshair pauses on his next step, bringing them to a halt. “The Empire took the liberty of examining her while she was imprisoned. They took blood tests. I didn’t know until the last day,” he adds as Hunter’s jaw clenches.

“I thought only the Kaminoans were interested in studying her. They wanted her for having the Prime’s unaltered DNA. Why would the Empire be interested?”

“I ripped the files from the lab. Whatever intel you have about her being unaltered? It’s wrong.”

Hunter stares. “That intel comes from Tech. You really expect me to believe some Imp ‘scientist’ over him?”

“Tech analyzed her DNA within the frame of her present age, correct?” Crosshair scowls, dropping the creature’s limb in favor of giving his muscles a break. “But did he spend hours poking at it in lab conditions? Do some experimenting? Have access to equipment that would let him see how it might change over time?”

Hunter’s lips part, but nothing comes out. Crosshair can see the wheels turning in his head.

“He used what you have on the Marauder,” the sniper points out. “Which is pretty good, but only showed you the surface.”

“She…doesn’t have the aging factor.”

“No,” Crosshair agrees.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s a ticking time bomb encoded in her DNA!” He shakes his head. “And when it goes off, she will be…different. What they found…she’s like us. All of us.”

Normally, it would be a delight to see the look of horror that creeps onto Hunter’s face. Right now, Crosshair finds himself rather indifferent to it.

“That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how it—”

“They found a way to kriff around and make us age at twice the normal rate. Changed our eyes and brains and bodies.” Crosshair scowls at the ground. “Is it really so hard to believe they found other ways to screw us over?”

“Why…why modify her if they were going to let her grow at a natural speed?” Hunter is hardly listening. “She wasn’t trained as a soldier. They were just using her as a living sample of the Prime’s DNA.”

“Well, we can’t really know their plans, can we?” Crosshair drawls. “Maybe they couldn’t stuff all the osik into one experiment and expect her to grow fast too.” He crosses his arms.

Hunter looks up from where his hand is planted beneath his chin, eyes sharp. “When you say…’like us’…”

“Brains, brawn, vision, and senses.” He gestures toward Hunter at the last one, face carefully inscrutable. “I’m not going to pretend I understood half the jargon they jotted down. But those are the traits that she is likely to develop as she gets older.”

Hunter turns away. It’s a long moment before he speaks again. “She’s…If that’s true…” He looks back, eyes far away. “It’s going to be agony.” Crosshair looks away, tracing the rippled pattern of a tree’s bark with his eyes. “We had time…but she’ll have nothing,” Hunter mutters. “She could end up hurt.” “If it makes you feel any better, they noted it’s unlikely the defects will be as pronounced as ours,” Crosshair mutters. “In the simulations, she…turns out ok.”

Hunter frowns. “They made us after her. If they were able to successfully combine all our abilities into one person, why would they make each of us with only one?”

Crosshair sniffs. “You ask like I would know.”

Hunter scowls back at him. The sniper’s eyes track down to his arm, where scarlet stains his bandaging.

“We need to keep moving.”

They grab the animal from where they had abandoned it, pushing on through the undergrowth and slowly weaving between trees.

“Omega’s already perfect as she is,” Hunter murmurs. “I’ve been teaching her self defense. She’s good. Definitely excels in all the stuff Tech’s been teaching her, too.”

“Testing her on maintaining sanity, is he?”

That earns him a scoff, though he swears it’s a little too choked to be only that.

“You know what you really should have taught her? How to shoot a kriffing blaster.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Hunter’s lips flatten. “She has her bow.”

“Not always,” Crosshair hums under his breath.

“I told her to stay on the ship, you know.” Defensiveness creeps into Hunter’s tone. “Our comms were being jammed. She got worried.”

“Oh, that excuses everything, then. Tell me, was the elusive prize you and your scaly friends were seeking worth it?”

“It wasn’t just about credits,,” Hunter snaps. “They were using Ipothian slaves as miners. The plan was supposed to be simple recon: steal the data our client was after and get out. That changed after we met the locals.”

Crosshair opens his mouth to reply, already sneering, but Hunter speaks again before he can.

“And no, it doesn’t excuse the fact that I failed to protect her, so drop it.”

The sniper raises a brow, but stays silent.

A few tiring moments later, the Havoc Marauder’s shape comes into view between the trees. Hunter huffs as they heave the creature around a boulder, clearly ready to be rid of its weight.

“How are you going to tell her?” Crosshair’s question earns him only a silent side-eye. “Hunter,” he snaps after the quiet drags on far too long. “You have to tell her.”

“Why didn’t you?” Obvious deflection.

“Hm, never had time to come up,” Crosshair snaps. “Now when are you going to tell her?”

“Soon.”

“She has a right to know—”

“I said eventually.” Hunter slows just before the break in the treeline, eyes flashing. “She’s still recovering from everything you two went through.” Crosshair can’t help but bristle a little at the calculating glance thrown his way. “I’m not going to just dump this on her now—not when we’re not even certain if it’s true.”

“You already know it is,” Crosshair snaps, glaring right back.

“Maybe. But I want to give it time, talk to Tech. We both should. He’ll want to know about everything you read.”

Their gazes stay locked, unblinking. Crosshair’s right eye twitches.

“Fine,” he says, looking away. “But I’d be careful if I were you. I doubt it will be a pretty affair when she finds you’ve been holding back the truth.”

Hunter gives him another troubled glance, jaw setting at the edge of a threat laced into his words. He tugs them forward again, leaving behind their conversation in the forest’s shadows.

Chapter Text

The fading light of the sunset greets them as they break through the treeline, bathing both clones in its scarlet glow. In the distance, Omega and Echo kneel over something in the long grass surrounding the ship. The kid’s head pops up as they draw closer, swiveling in their direction.

In the blink of an eye, she’s on her feet and breaking into a sprint towards them. Echo calls out something behind her—probably a warning to take it easy—but she ignores it, flying forward until she smacks into Hunter like a meteor drawn to a planet.

The older clone lets out an “Oof,” abandoning his half of their kill seconds before she collides. Crosshair can’t help but stare as Hunter catches her in a hug, ruffling her hair before pulling back and smiling at the kid with a sickeningly fond look in his eyes.

The sniper tears his gaze away as Omega’s glowing expression turns in his direction. He tries to shove down the gnawing feeling of discomfort that creeps its way into his chest, inspecting the dead animal beside him with a scowl.

She follows his line of sight, nose wrinkling as she takes in the way the thing’s tongue lolls out. “Ew. What is it?”

“Dinner,” Hunter states simply.

Their heads turn at the pounding of heavy footsteps. Contrary to the kid, Wrecker surveys their kill with a blinding grin. “Oh yeah!” He rubs his hands together, bending to scoop the whole corpse onto his own shoulders in one fell swoop. “This’s going to be krif— I mean,” he sends a nervous glance toward the kid, “Really delicious.”

As if drawn by some invisible force, Crosshair’s eyes lock with Omega’s. The kid’s lips twitch into a tiny, mischievous grin. The sniper narrows his eyes, and it only grows bigger.

“Thanks, guys!” Wrecker calls giddily, already running back toward camp, the animal bouncing haphazardly on his shoulders. Omega and Hunter grimace in sync. Crosshair dusts his gloves off of a few tufts of stripy fur, and starts walking toward the ship.

He hears the kid regaling Hunter with every little event he missed while they were gone. Shiny bugs, Tech’s excitement over a rare species of plant, and Echo and Wrecker arguing over tuber seasonings seem to be the highlights. The older clone nods along to it all, steadily steering the pair toward the ship and past Crosshair as the sniper slows his pace near their camp’s general perimeter.

“That looks like it hurt!” he hears Omega gasp as they grow farther away. Hunter replies with half a shrug and a few gruff words, but by then he can’t quite pick them out. Probably something about having thick skin, or some other nonsense.

The sniper changes direction, opting instead to wander further out into the field. He gives the Marauder a glance as he does, eyes catching on the flash of white armor that passes Hunter and Omega on their ascent up the boarding ramp.

Tech still leans heavily on his crutches, lips pulled into a tight line as he muddles through the patches of long grass dotting the clearing they landed in. He makes his way over to where Wrecker and Echo are already working at carving up their kill, peering over their shoulders to inspect the corpse. He tucks the crutches under his arms, and starts typing on his datapad.

Crosshair halfheartedly rolls his eyes as he turns his back on the scene. Some things never changed.

Only a sliver of sun peeks over the horizon by now, throwing the landscape into long shadows. In the distance, Wrecker sets to work on the beginnings of a bonfire, bursts of sparks drifting up to the heavens as he heaves more wood onto the pile.

Crosshair stops in the middle of the field, gazing across the horizon toward the fiery sphere disappearing beneath it. A gentle breeze rustles the long grass, coaxing a slow exhale from him as he allows his eyes to slide shut.

He can hear voices arguing in the distance—Tech and Wrecker’s, likely over the latter’s care over the bonfire. Tech is probably lecturing him on the possibility of damaging the native ecosystem, while Wrecker is insisting on making the fire just a little bigger. Echo’s voice soon joins the discussion, only occasionally ebbing loud enough for him to hear above the rustle of the grass.

Beyond that, he catches a peal of laughter, too high-pitched to belong to anyone but the kid. It passes from behind his left shoulder to his right, traveling with her as she races through the grass once again.

Crosshair keeps his back turned to it all, letting their voices meld with the whispering grass and watching the sky begin to melt from deep orange to soft rose before dissolving into an inky blue. The planet’s atmosphere creates an interesting tint over the view of space, making the pinpricks of starlight that slowly blossom forth from its tapestry glow with their own shades of deep azure.

A voice calls out in the distance, pulling him from his reverie. The fire roars in the distance, highlighting the five figures loosely spread around it.

He takes his time meandering toward them. Luckily, no one pays him much mind as he slinks along the circle of light, all too preoccupied with their own conversations or tasks.

Hunter and Wrecker are worrying over the makeshift spit that holds their prize from their earlier hunt. Omega and Echo sit on the other side of the roaring flames, the older clone smiling as he points up to the stars above.

That just leaves Tech, who is still nose-deep in his datapad. Crosshair sits down on the other end of the log he occupies. Wrecker must have saved a few from the timber pile, leaving them strewn around the fire in a rough semicircle. He runs a few fingers over the rough bark, watching the flames briefly swirl into a funnel as the wind shifts.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Tech glance over. He shifts, scooting awkwardly closer as he works around his injuries.

“The creature you killed is a Red-Eared Warcat.” He briefly locks eyes with Crosshair as the sniper bites down on a toothpick. “A species that has become invasive to several planets in this system. It’s actually quite beneficial that you killed it. The species of deer Hunter described are endangered.”

“Goody.” Crosshair flicks a piece of dirt from his arm.

“Indeed.” His sarcasm is ignored. “It is quite fortunate you only found yourself faced with two Warcats as well. They prefer to hunt in packs. Unusual, for feline species.”

“Maybe those two couldn’t stand the others’ constant jabbering.”

“I acknowledge that your comment is meant to reference our current dialogue. However, Warcats do not ‘jabber.’ They actually have a fascinating communication system utilizing pheromones—”

And he’s off again. Crosshair’s eyes drift back to the fire, leaning a little closer to its heat. The air has gotten chillier since sunset.

On the other side of the flames, Omega is slotted into Echo’s side, the reg’s arm looped around her shoulders to keep her close. Her head leans into his shoulder, blinking sleepily.

“Plates, lads,” Hunter’s voice snaps all their attentions over to where he’s poking at the cut of meat with a knife. “Meat’s done.”

There’s a flurry of movement, and a moment later, they’ve formed a messy assembly line. Hunter carves off pieces of meat, with Echo doling out some sort of seasoned root vegetables. Crosshair lingers behind Tech at the back as he fumbles a plate to accept his portion from Echo, then promptly sends a dismayed look toward the crutches held in place beneath his arms.

“Give me that,” Crosshair grumbles, snatching the tray from him. Tech gives him a mildly offended look, but the sniper is too busy locking eyes with Echo as the other clone stiffly proffers Crosshair his own tray. The fire melds with the gold of his eyes as he fixes the sniper with a hard gaze.

Crosshair slowly reaches out, closing his fingers around the tray. Echo releases it after a beat, jaw softening as he seems to find something satisfactory in the sniper’s eyes. It is, after all, as close as he’s going to get to an apology.

Tech hobbles along close on his heels as Crosshair stalks back to his place at the fire. He shoves Tech’s tray in his direction the minute he settles beside him.

He almost doesn’t catch his brother’s murmured, “Appreciated,” over the crackle of shifting firewood.

Crosshair grabs up his fork, scrutinizing the contents of the plate with a raised brow. The meat looks promising enough. The vegetables aren’t too shabby either. He stabs one up, popping it into his mouth. It tastes weird—sort of bitter and tangy—but not in the way Imperial rations did. This food tastes like it was actually alive at some point before being served.

It’s not long before Wrecker starts telling the kid a story that involves many mimicked explosions and raucous chuckles. She mirrors his enthusiasm, giggling when he throws his hands up in wild gestures. Everyone else’s attention steadily gravitates toward his antics, contributing their own comments and leading the conversation in new directions.

Crosshair stays in the background, letting their words blend with the crackle of the flames amd only feeling the occasional glance in his direction. His mine conjures the image of a black hole sitting in the midst of a galaxy, waiting to drag anything that gets close enough into its depths.

The fire flares brighter as the wind picks up, making him avert his eyes. He catches another pair of eyes watching from across the fire.

One side of Hunter’s lips tilt up into a tentative smile. Crosshair doesn’t return it, gaze flicking back toward the others.

Everything looks the same. And that, he realizes, might cut deeper than every little difference added together. To be so close to what once was and yet be unable to touch it.

Across from him, Omega grins, eyes sparkling in the firelight.

It couldn’t be the same.

But maybe, just maybe, Crosshair thinks as he looks up to the stars above, it could be something new.

Chapter Text

The stars shift as the night wears on, leaving Crosshair beneath a different sky as he perches on top of the Marauder a few hours later.

He has assumed this position many times in the past—restless nights across a thousand planets, with the constant between most of them waiting in the sky above. The stars may change, but the strange sense of calm they bring him does not.

It’s something he never thought he would do again, Crosshair realizes as he leans back against the sharp incline leading up to the dorsal wing. He pulls the toothpick from his mouth, exhaling slowly as he tilts his head back. One of the planet’s moons sits close enough for him to pick out the craters covering its surface. He’s busy mentally mapping each one when he hears it: a soft scuff to his left.

The sniper sits bolt upright, just in time to see a small hand land on the edge of the ship’s roof. A determined face appears soon after it.

“Little help?” Omega gives him a strained smile.

Crosshair narrows his eyes, but shuffles over. “How did you get up here?” He leans down to grab hold of her, hoisting the kid up. Omega scrambles to stable ground with his help, dusting herself off. “Thanks. And I climbed.”

Crosshair opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. He fixes the kid with a scrutinizing look.

“What are you doing up so late?”

“Coming up here to see what you’re doing up so late. Whatcha doing?”

“Enjoying the quiet.” He stands, moving back to his former position. Unsurprisingly, his smaller shadow follows along. Omega plunks down right beside him, craning her neck to look to the sky.

“Whoa,” she whispers, wide eyes reflecting the hundreds of tiny lights. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky like that.” She turns to him. “Have you?”

Crosshair hums, eyeing her from his peripheral. “A few.”

“It’s beautiful.” She lays back against the Maruader’s boxy incline with a dreamy expression.

Silence descends between them, filled only by the murmur of the long grass in the night breeze. Crosshair stares out across the rippling sea, catching the flutter of tiny wings as nocturnal creatures dart above the surface only to dive back below the stalks.

Beside him, Omega gives a small shiver. The sniper levels her with a sharp look.

“If you get sick, I’m not taking the fall for it.”

“I’m fine!”

“You better be.”

For some reason, that causes her to crack a grin. Crosshair just glares before looking away again.

“I have something for you.” Omega pushes back upright, fishing in one of her pockets before sticking her hand behind her back.

Crosshair eyes her suspiciously. “What?”

“Hold out your hand.”

He gives a long-suffering sigh, but lifts an open hand. “This better not be some juvenile trick,” the sniper mutters as she lays her smaller hand over his. Something small and vaguely rounded lands in the center of his palm. Crosshair squints down at it as the kid pulls back.

It’s…a rock. At first glance, there’s not much of note about it. Then he picks out a faint white glow creeping out from the thin lines that wrap around it.

“Where’d you find this?”

“Digging in the dirt,” she answers with no hint of sarcasm. “I asked Tech, and he said it’s a fragment of some kind of ore that forms on this planet.”

“He didn’t say it was giving off any unusual radiation, did he?” Crosshair gives half a dry smirk, thumbing over the stone’s angular black surface.

“Nope, just that it has ‘self-sustaining fluorescence.’ I think it’s really cool.”

“Hm.” Crosshair proffers it back to her, but she waves him away.

“You can keep it.”

“It’s a rock.”

“A glowing rock,” Omega corrects brightly. “Kind of like having one of those to keep in your pocket.” She points upward.

Crosshair frowns, ready to shove it back toward her again—or maybe pitch it off into the field surrounding them—but she’s already turning away, leaning back to watch the sky.

Slowly, his hand comes back to rest against his bent knee, pebble still folded into his fingers. He’ll chuck it later, he decides, even as he rolls it across the center of his palm.

“Kid,” Crosshair mutters a moment later, thoughts idly trailing away from the coolness of night to a scorching sun, desert heat, and hopeful eyes surrounded by the grey of a shuttle. “There’s something I never got to ask you—”

He looks over, only to find her eyes closed. With her face relaxed beneath the starlight, she somehow looks even younger than her short years.

For a moment, Crosshair just stares at her, taking in the difference. Then he leans forward, awkwardly unfurling his limbs to lay back against the hull beside her. He rests the hand still holding her rock over his stomach, curling his other arm behind his head and staring at the tapestry of space above.

It is there, with the Marauder at his back and her warm presence at his side, that he begins to find the answers he’s been seeking.