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Attaching the Havoc Marauder to the Imperial prison ship really shouldn’t be this easy, no matter how good of a pilot Tech is. There should be a guard or an alarm or something to make sure no one can do exactly what they’re doing - infiltrating the prison to gain access to the database of criminal records for one of Cid’s clients.
Honestly, Hunter’s a little concerned that the Empire - the same people who are trying to take over the entire galaxy - can’t even stop a group of five from breaking onto one of their (supposedly) more secure ships.
“We should be in a lesser used part of the ship. There are no heat signatures in the immediate vicinity,” Tech assures them as they line up at the hatch to board.
Hunter grunts in agreement, adding, “No droids, either.” Wrecker looks a little disappointed, so he adds, “Still, be on guard. I have a bad feeling about this.”
The hatch swings open, and Hunter leads them up the ladder and into the enemy ship. There are two things he notices immediately.
First, the prison is silent. Eerily so. Aside from the low hum of the life support systems, he can hear nothing but the shuffling of his team climbing up behind him.
Second, it smells terrible. The air is still and heavy with the scent of rot, and Hunter gags. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, steadying him, and when he turns, Wrecker tilts his head in a silent question. Hunter shakes his head, swallowing back the nausea. Wrecker squeezes his shoulder once and lets go.
Echo, whose sense of smell hasn’t been the same since his torture at the hands of the Techno Union, seems unaffected. Tech and Wrecker both have looks of mild disgust on their faces. Omega cups a hand over her nose and whispers, “What is that?”
“It smells like rot,” Hunter tells her. “Try breathing through your mouth.”
Tech leads them through the prison ship, referencing a blueprint that he got from who-knows-where. They make their way to the control room with no trouble at all, which has the hair on the back of Hunter’s neck standing on end. They’d passed through an empty cellblock, but they still should have, in theory, come across a guard or something.
Out of habit, he slides his vibroblade out of its sheath, just enough to reassure himself that it’s still there, and then slides it back in with a click. He offers Omega a reassuring smile when she tilts her head at him, and shrugs at Echo’s raised eyebrow.
The control room is empty. Silent. The only alarms are the ones ringing in the back of Hunter’s skull.
After a good moment of the Batch lingering in the doorway, Echo moves into the room, blaster raised as he scans for danger.
“Clear.”
Without hesitation, Tech follows him. As Echo plugs his scomp link into the terminal, eyes going unfocused, Tech settles into the chair in front of the main control panel and begins to inspect the equipment.
“It appears that none of this has been touched for days,” Tech notes. “The settings have returned to their defaults. That would only happen if they had received no input in…” He trails off, tapping away at his pad and muttering to himself under his breath.
“Hunter?” calls Omega, voice high with anxiety.
“What is it?” He crosses the room to see what she’s staring at.
There’s blood splattered across some of the instruments, speckling the knobs and dials with rusty brown. Hunter lightly brushes his fingers across the spots.
“It’s dry. Been here a while.”
Omega nods, brow still furrowed with concern. Wrecker rests a hand on her shoulder, then scoops her up into his arms. She rests her head against his chest plate, still looking at the blood splatter like it unnerves her.
Hunter nods to Wrecker, then turns to Tech. “I’m going to check something. I’ll comm you if I need backup.”
Tech nods his acknowledgement without looking up. Hunter notices that his leg is outstretched so his foot rests against Echo’s ankle. He’s been doing that a lot recently, Hunter notes, every time Echo scomps into something.
Satisfied that his brothers have each other’s backs, Hunter draws his blaster and moves off to the doors on the side of the control room - the guards’ living quarters. The buttons on the keypad are worn enough that he guesses the entry code correctly on the first try, and the door slides open to reveal a small anteroom with two more doors.
The putrid smell is worse here. Hunter presses the back of his hand to his nose, inhaling the familiar scents of synthleather glove and metal blaster. He leans close to the first door, but there’s still no sound aside from the hum of life support and the rustling of his own team. Correcting his grip on his blaster, he takes a deep breath and palms open the door.
It’s a small room, living quarters equipped with only a bed and a desk and chair. There are doors to a closet and ‘fresher. The only thing of interest in the room is the swollen corpse strewn across the bed.
Hunter takes a careful step forward, taking shallow breaths through his mouth as he inspects the body. The uniform and personal quarters indicate that he was an Imperial officer. His eyes are open and glassy; there is dried blood around his mouth and nose. One arm hangs off the side of the mattress, and the palm is splattered in blood, like he’d coughed into it.
Hunter backs out of the room, closing the door behind him. The nausea is rising up in him again, acid burning its way up his throat, and he takes a moment to breathe through it before moving to the other door.
This room is slightly bigger, but more crowded with four bunks - stormtrooper barracks. Three of the beds have corpses laid out on them. The fourth is empty, but Hunter can see a fourth pair of discolored legs disappearing into the fresher. The smell of decomposition hangs heavy in the air.
Hunter stumbles back into the anteroom and comms Tech. Within moments, his brother is beside him. He doesn’t ask questions, even though he clearly wants to, just inspects the rooms while Hunter stands watch from the doorways.
“Well?” he asks as Tech returns to his side and leads him back to the control room, scrolling through something on his datapad all the while.
“It appears to be an outbreak of Rojo Fever. It’s a highly infectious and often deadly viral infection.” Hunter shoots him a horrified look, and Tech continues, “Don’t worry. Most people aren’t contagious by the time it kills them.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Hunter mutters. Then, louder, “Air filtration masks on, everyone.”
Hunter pulls his air filtration mask out of his utility belt and fits it over his face. The smell lessens instantly and he can’t help the small sigh of relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tech fitting his own mask on. Across the room, Wrecker, already masked up, is helping Omega with hers.
Echo, still plugged in, doesn’t move, just stares into the middle distance with the glazed expression he gets every time he scomps into an unfamiliar database. Wordlessly, Tech moves over to tap his shoulder, then pulls Echo’s mask out of his utility belt and slips it onto his brother’s head. Deftly, he adjusts the straps around the implants, then taps Echo’s shoulder again.
Echo blinks a few times, vision clearing as he unplugs his scomp arm from the computer. “I have it,” he rasps, “but we need to stop somewhere first.” With no further explanation, he pushes himself to his feet and starts down the hallway.
Hunter exchanges a look with Tech, who shrugs and follows. Wrecker picks Omega back up and jogs past Hunter to catch up to their brothers. Hunter casts one more glance at the blood splattered console and follows.
Echo leads them quickly and silently through the prison. There’s something oddly single-minded about the way he moves, without his usual caution or watchfulness. His grip on his blaster is still perfect, but his focus seems to be more on counting doors than on checking for threats. Though, Hunter has to admit, there really isn’t much of a chance that they’ll be ambushed here - the guards are dead and the prisoners are locked up. Besides, Tech is at Echo’s side, matching him stride for stride and covering him as they round every corner.
Beside Hunter, Wrecker keeps Omega tucked against his broad chest, angling her away from the cell doors. Hunter realizes why as he glances into several of the cells as they pass. The smell of death permeates the air, and the cells hold corpses. Many have blood-splattered faces. A few are skeletal. One, he notices with a wave of nausea, blinks slowly as they pass.
He lengthens his stride so he can fall in beside Tech and murmurs, “What happened here, Tech?”
Voice equally low, Tech replies, “It appears that most of them were infected and died of the virus. Those fortunate enough to not contract the disease most likely starved to death.”
“How long have they been...” Hunter trails off, not sure how to finish the question, but Tech understands.
“Based on the state of the corpses, probably two to three weeks since the initial outbreak. The virus is no longer infectious after the fourth day. Those that did not catch it are likely immune and therefore pose no threat to us. Our breathing apparatus provides further protection. We are at very low risk,” he reassures, and Hunter feels the tension in his shoulders ease a little.
“Still,” he says, “I don’t want to be here longer than necessary. Echo, are we-”
“Almost there,” Echo cuts him off. Hunter frowns at his oldest brother. There’s something off about him, a tightness in his voice, a slight tremor in his hand. The scent of fear rolling off him in waves.
Before he can press, Echo leads them around another corner and stops dead. The rest of them stumble to a halt behind him. The hallway leads to a dead end, flanked by the doors to four cells. Echo casts his gaze to the numbers above the doors, then moves quickly to the last door on the left and looks in. He makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut, and Hunter surges forward.
“Echo, what-”
He stops as he looks into the cell. There is a body curled up on the cot, back to them. Its lanky limbs are pulled close to its chest and the knobs of its spine show through the rough prison garb. The short grey hair is matted with sweat.
Hunter’s heartbeat pounds in his ears, hard and fast. Beside him, Echo’s heart sounds the same. Tech’s, Wrecker’s, and Omega’s are calmer, though still anxiously quick. The sixth heartbeat is weak and uneven.
The sixth.
Hunter whirls around for Tech only to find his brother already at his side, tapping away at his datapad. A moment later, the cell door slides open and Hunter stumbles inside.
The short journey between the door and the cot is both a fraction of a second and an eternity. Even with his mask on, Hunter is overwhelmed by the smell. Blood, and sweat, and urine, all blanketed by the thick haze of sickness. This close, he can hear Crosshair's breath wheezing as his chest struggles to rise and fall. A pale hand reaches out past him for Crosshair's shoulder and Hunter startles a little. Echo doesn't seem to notice his reaction as the ARC trooper gently, carefully, rolls their brother onto his back.
Crosshair has always been sharp-featured and pale; his albinism gives him pinkish white skin and silver light hair, and he never filled out after their lanky teenage years. Now, though, he is gaunt and pallid, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and too prominent bones. There is blood, dry and fresh, coating his mouth and under his nose.
“Crosshair,” Hunter breathes.
Crosshair, of course, doesn’t respond, but Hunter hears Wrecker’s wordless sound of shock and Omega’s soft gasp. There are footsteps behind him that Hunter recognizes as Tech's as the engineer comes to stand beside him.
Tech’s expression is carefully neutral as he scans Crosshair's entire body twice, lingering over his chest and head. His voice is disturbingly detached - and, oh, they'll have to talk about this later - as he says to no one in particular, “It should be safe to move him.”
As much as he wants to press, Hunter can recognize the signs of Tech shutting down. He glances at Echo, who is watching Tech with a furrowed brow. Echo meets Hunter’s gaze and gives him a short nod. Hunter nods back, then turns his attention back to the most pressing issue - getting their sick brother to safety and, hopefully, medical attention.
"Wrecker-"
"I'll carry him," Wrecker interrupts, voice thick.
Hunter turns to see his largest brother set Omega gently on the floor and hesitantly enter the cell. When he reaches the cot, he stops, staring down at the pitiful figure for a long moment before sinking into a crouch. He sniffles once and then carefully, so carefully, reaches out to brush his fingers through the sweat-soaked hair.
With a tenderness Hunter has only ever seen Wrecker use with his brothers - and more recently, his sister - Wrecker lifts Crosshair into his arms, cradles him against his chest. The angle seems to help ease his breathing into something a little less strained. A thin stream of blood trickles out of his nose.
Echo takes Tech by the arm, which makes the younger clone startle for a moment before relaxing in recognition. Satisfied that Tech will be taken care of, Hunter turns to Omega. The girl is standing in the doorway, wringing her hands and looking like she’s half a second from running forward to check on their wayward brother. Hunter takes a few stiff steps toward her and reaches for her hand. She squeezes his fingers, and he wonders who’s comforting whom.
“When we get back to the Marauder,” he reassures her and she nods, understanding his half-finished thought.
Hunter and Omega take the lead back to their ship, following the familiar hum of its life support systems. Echo, steering a mildly dissociating Tech by the elbow, brings up the rear. Wrecker settles into the middle of the group, Crosshair’s unconscious form tucked against his broad chest plate.
Halfway to the Marauder, Crosshair’s breath chokes to a stop. Hunter hears it a second before the others and spins to Wrecker, who looks at the limp form in his arms with horror. Tech freezes, Echo holds his own breath, and Omega says, "Sit him upright!"
Wrecker hurries to obey, tilting Crosshair into an upright position. The sniper's chest spasms; he sucks in a wet inhale and then starts coughing, harsh and wracking and endless. Fresh blood coats his lips, mixes with his saliva to drip in strings off his chin.
After an eternity, Crosshair sags back into Wrecker’s arms, utterly spent. His mouth hangs open as he gasps for breath, but his eyes stay closed and he doesn’t seem to feel Wrecker curling protectively around him, doesn’t seem to hear Tech desperately whispering his name. As Crosshair’s breathing settles into a less laboured wheeze, his brothers slump in relief, leaning on each other to stay upright.
Hunter realizes with a jolt that he has a death grip on Omega’s hand. She’s shaking, violent tremors that make her arm jerk in his grip. He forces his hand to relax, peels his fingers away from hers, but as he starts to pull away, she clutches his hand in both of hers and the trembling eases as he realizes that she’s not the one who’s shaking. Her concern is palpable, so Hunter offers her a rough nod before turning back to his brothers.
Wrecker is cradling Crosshair to his chest like the sniper is about one harsh movement from shattering, like he’ll disappear if Wrecker doesn’t hold onto him. Tech, who looks like his knees won’t take his weight, is leaning hard against Echo, who is paler than usual but still holding it together. When Hunter meets his gaze, the cyborg quietly says, “Come on. The ship’s close.”
The rest of the journey is uneventful, thank the Force. When Hunter opens the hatch to the Marauder, Echo shepherds Tech and Omega down the ladder, then leads Tech into the cockpit. As Hunter descends the ladder, he can hear Echo murmuring instructions to Omega, and then footsteps.
As Echo comes back to stand beside him, Hunter calls up to Wrecker. “Lower him down, gently. ”
Wrecker huffs a little, but doesn’t say anything as he crouches beside the hatch and slowly guides Crosshair’s body through it. Echo takes his feet and Hunter stands on the bottom rung of the ladder to take his shoulders. Crosshair’s head lolls against Hunter’s shoulder, his forehead bumping his brother’s neck and Hunter almost flinches at how hot he is.
Wrecker jumps down into the ship and, without waiting for instruction, starts grabbing blankets to set up a makeshift medical cot on the floor of the Marauder. Hunter can’t remember when the last time they had to do this was. Maybe when the bounty hunter shot him on Bracca.
As Hunter and Echo lower Crosshair onto the pile of blankets, Echo says, “Wrecker, get some wet cloths. We need to bring his fever down.”
As soon as Crosshair is settled, Hunter strides into the cockpit and bumps right into Omega.
“What do we do?” she demands.
“Go help Echo,” he rasps, squeezing her shoulder. She hesitates, throwing a concerned look over her shoulder at Tech, sitting in the pilot’s chair, and Hunter says, “I’ll take care of him. Go.”
Once the door slides closed behind her, Hunter moves across the small space to the pilot’s chair. Tech doesn’t acknowledge his approach, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees and staring blankly down at the datapad in his hands. The screen displays information about the Rojo Fever.
Hunter crouches in front of him, eases the datapad out of his hands and sets it on the co-pilot’s seat, and places his own hands in Tech’s upturned palms. Finally, Tech responds, raising his haunted gaze to meet Hunter’s.
“The survival rate is less than ten percent,” he whispers hollowly.
Hunter ignores the chill in his veins that that bit of information causes, and squeezes his brother’s hands. “They need your help in there, Tech.”
Tech shakes his head, and Hunter thinks he sees a tear drip onto the inside rim of his goggles. “We shouldn’t have left him, Hunter.”
Hunter closes his eyes and bows his head at the words. The tone isn’t accusing, but it still feels like a condemnation. “It was his choice.” The excuse sounds empty.
“We shouldn’t have let him make it. We don’t leave our own behind, we never have. If we hadn’t left him, he wouldn’t have been in that prison. He wouldn’t be dying-”
“We can’t go back and change it, Tech."
Tech shakes his head again, but tightens his grip on Hunter’s hands and pulls himself to his feet. Hunter steadies him when he sways a little, but Tech brushes him off gently and strides out of the cockpit. Hunter follows.
Wrecker is standing along the wall, hunching in on himself, and looking very small for a man of his size. Omega presses a cool, damp rag to the inside of Crosshair’s wrist; there are more cloths on his arms, neck, and chest. Echo is gently cleaning the mask of blood from Crosshair’s face, scraping dry flakes from his stubble and mopping up the fresh trickle of blood from his nose. Tech begins hooking up an IV.
“What can we do?” Hunter asks, helplessness making his stomach turn.
“At the moment, there is nothing we can do aside from giving him fluids and keeping his temperature down. What he needs is a healer.”
“Tech, we don’t have the credits for that. There has to be something else-”
Tech cuts him off. “He will die without a healer, Hunter. We cannot save him. He needs professional care at a facility equipped to handle an infection of this magnitude.”
Before Hunter can come up with a response to that, Echo interrupts. “Call Rex.”
Even Tech seems startled at the suggestion, but Echo locks eyes with only Hunter and repeats, “Call Rex. He’ll help us.”
Tech scoffs, “I doubt he will appreciate us bringing an Imperial soldier to one of his allies, even if he does know someone who can help.”
“Hunter,” Echo says, and Hunter can see fear and faith warring in his eyes. “Call him.”
Hunter looks from Tech, all bitter resignation, to Echo, determination and fragile hope. But in the end, his gaze settles on Crosshair, his little brother, burning bright with fever and slowly drowning in his own blood.
“...Okay.”
With one last glance at Crosshair, Hunter retreats into the cockpit. After a moment of hesitation, he closes the door behind him. His fingers are stiff as he keys in the code to Rex’s encrypted comm, his shoulders tense as the blue hologram flickers into existence.
Rex looks exhausted and his armor has new carbon scoring, but he draws himself into an imitation of attention once he sees that it’s Hunter. The lines on his face ease as his expression shifts into something that isn’t a smile, but still manages to look pleased to see him.
“Hunter,” he says, and the hologram flickers. “What can I do for you?”
Before he can back out, Hunter says, “We need your help. It’s Crosshair.”
Something crosses over Rex’s face, but it’s gone in a second, so quickly that Hunter thinks it might have just been a hologram glitch. “His chip?”
Hunter shifts his weight, instinctively putting himself between the captain and his brothers. “No,” he forces himself to say. “Apparently, he had it removed some time ago.”
That one does get a visible reaction from Rex. The captain’s face darkens, eyes sharp as he jumps immediately to the correct conclusion. “But he stayed with the Empire anyway."
Hunter refuses to fidget. “Yes.” He keeps the word crisp, like he’s reporting to a superior officer.
There’s a long pause as Rex seems to search Hunter’s face for something. The hologram flickers into static for a second, and when it clears, Rex sighs deeply, shoulders sagging. “What do you need from me, Hunter?”
“We found him in an Imperial prison. He’s sick. He needs a healer.”
Rex brings one hand up to rub his forehead, closes his eyes, and sighs again. When he drops his hand and looks at Hunter again, there’s pain in his eyes. “Hunter…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “I want to help you. I do. But I have people I have to protect. I can’t risk it.”
Hunter shakes his head, desperate. “He’s part of my squad. My responsibility.”
“He’s Imperial.”
“They locked him in a jail cell and left him to die,” Hunter argues, feeling sick. “He has no loyalty to the Empire anymore.”
“Can you guarantee that?” Rex demands, and Hunter hesitates. He can't. Tech was right, back under the ocean of Kamino - Crosshair has always been unyielding. Would being left for dead be enough to sway him?
Before he can come up with an answer, a ruckus erupts in the other room.
Without a word to Rex, Hunter wheels for the door, slamming his palm against the controls and slipping through the opening as soon as it’s big enough to accommodate him, then stopping dead as he sees what caused the commotion.
Wrecker is hauling Crosshair up into a sitting position, patting his back as gently as he can as the sniper once again chokes on his own blood. The coughing fit seems to go on forever. When it finally winds down and Crosshair goes limp again, Echo wipes the blood from his chin and Crosshair’s eyes flutter open.
He doesn’t really focus on any of them, but his wandering, empty gaze lingers on Echo, who’s the closest. As Tech shifts forward, Crosshair’s eyes flicker to him before wandering off into the distance again. His eyes begin to drift closed.
“Wait, Crosshair, don’t close your eyes -”
“Cross, hey, wait -”
He slips back into unconsciousness again, head lolling against Wrecker’s shoulder. Tech lunges forward to press two fingers to Crosshair’s exposed throat and, after a moment, lets out a gusty sigh of relief and sits back on his heels. The room collectively lets out its held breath.
Hunter watches his family settle back into their positions around their sick brother, each looking as rattled as he feels. After a long few moments, he returns to the cockpit, where the hologram of Rex is still waiting. The Captain doesn’t say anything, and Hunter can’t bring himself to look at the flickering blue projection.
Instead, he collapses into the co-pilot’s chair, drops his head into his hands and threads his fingers through his hair. He can feel his fingers shaking and curls them into his scalp just to make them stop. His nails are blunt, but they still dig sharply into his skin, and the tug of his fingers on his hair causes just enough pain to distract him from the situation, if only a little.
Then Rex takes a deep breath, and Hunter braces himself for the words that he know will be Crosshair’s death sentence.
“Aldera Universal Medcenter.”
Hunter looks up so fast his neck pops. Rex looks at him, all tension and wariness and compassion. His jaw clenches and he appears to have to force himself to speak. “It’s in the capital city on Alderaan. I’ll make sure they don’t question your ship.”
He ends the transmission before Hunter can form a thought beyond disbelief and faint, flickering hope.
“Tech!” he calls, staggering to his feet and wheeling for the door. The cockpit door slides open as he reaches it and he finds himself staring directly into Tech’s goggles.
“Plot a course for Alderaan.”
Tech, thank the Force, doesn’t ask questions. He hurries past Hunter and drops into the pilot's chair without a word, fingers flying over the controls before he's even fully sitting. There's still something a bit stilted about his movements, and Hunter considers going to talk to him, but before he can even begin to decide what he would say, Echo brushes past him and settles into the co-pilot’s chair. Neither Tech nor Echo speaks, but Tech angles ever so slightly towards his brother and his movements seem more relaxed.
Once again, Hunter thanks whatever higher power gave them Echo. Admittedly, he’d had some hesitation about asking a reg, no matter how unique his circumstances, to join them. Only Wrecker had even been on board with the idea from the beginning. Surprisingly, Crosshair had been the next to add his support. Tech had been the last. Now, looking at the two of them silently supporting each other, Hunter wonders how any one of them had ever doubted that Echo belonged with the Bad Batch.
Knowing that the pair of them will take care of each other until they reach Alderaan, Hunter retreats into the other room. Wrecker is still sitting by Crosshair’s head, and Omega is curled into his side. They look up at his footsteps, and Wrecker wipes his eyes on the back of his hand before offering Hunter a grimace that may have been an attempt at a watery smile.
Omega pats the spot on her other side and Hunter settles into it, sandwiching the little girl between himself and Wrecker. The solid warmth of them is comforting, not like the blazing heat he feels when he rests his knuckles against Crosshair’s temple. He wonders if the wet cloths are helping Crosshair’s temperature at all, or if they are merely a way to make his family feel like they can help in a helpless situation.
Hunter leans past Omega to rest his forehead on Wrecker’s shoulder. Wrecker has always been one for physical comfort, more so than the rest of them. As soon as he has permission, Wrecker reaches over and wraps his arm around Hunter’s shoulders, pulling him into a half-embrace. Hunter can feel the hitch of Wrecker’s shoulder, the sniffle in his breathing. Omega leans forward to avoid being squished between them, and changes the cloths again.
The flight to Alderaan is only about an hour at lightspeed, during which time most of them doze. Hunter finds himself startling awake to every change in Crosshair’s breathing - soft wheezes shifting into heavy, laboured panting, then easing back into quiet, whistling breaths.
“We will arrive at Alderaan in approximately two minutes,” Tech calls from the cockpit.
Hunter sits up so abruptly that Wrecker, who had been leaning against him, loses his balance and tilts into Omega. The girl had started to stir at Hunter’s movement; Wrecker’s sudden weight startles her awake with a gasp, which in turn rouses the bigger clone. Hunter disentangles himself from the pair of them and staggers to his feet.
He stumbles into the cockpit, pins and needles making his left leg all but useless. Tech glances back at him and asks, “Was there any specific clearance code you were instructed to give?”
“No. Rex just said that they wouldn’t question the ship.”
Tech hums in a way that Hunter knows means he’s dissatisfied with the answer. Echo doesn’t seem bothered at all, and Hunter wonders what exactly Rex did to earn such loyalty from one of the most cynical people Hunter knows.
They drop out of hyperspace with a jolt that prompts a shouted “Hey! Watch it!” from Wrecker in the back room. Hunter raises an eyebrow at Tech, who pointedly ignores him. Echo opens his mouth to say something, but a pair of soft trills has him spinning back to the console to accept the incoming transmission.
The voice is crisp, professional, and unfamiliar. “Omicron-class attack shuttle, you are clear to land on platform AUM-16. Sending coordinates.”
The three brothers exchange looks. Then Echo shrugs, and Hunter nods, and Tech turns to the console to input the coordinates that flash across one of the screens. The Marauder plunges forward, a little more smoothly than it had stopped, carrying them toward the beautiful green and blue planet below.
The coordinates have them dipping between snow-covered mountains. Hunter can see small clusters of dwellings lining the rivers that wind through the valleys below. Then they swing around a larger mountain, and the river gives way to a large, glassy lake that perfectly mirrors the golden sky. Set in the center is an island, upon which sits a cluster of towering silver structures, orbited by the gleaming lights of passing ships and speeders.
Hunter’s knuckles are white as he grips the backs of the pilot’s and co-pilot’s chairs.
The coordinates lead them to a group of gleaming buildings, interconnected by a system of walkways and platforms. Tech brings the Marauder in to the designated landing pad with surprising care, considering how stressed he is. As soon as the ship touches the ground, Hunter whirls around and hurries into the other room. Wrecker is already crouched beside Crosshair, easing his arms beneath the limp form and carefully hefting him into his arms while Omega supports Crosshair’s head. Hunter keys in the code to open the ramp, checks his blaster out of habit, and leads the way off the ship.
There are people on the platform already, dressed in crisp white uniforms. They look to be unarmed, but Hunter raises his blaster just in case, and sees a pair of security guards near the doors instantly begin moving toward the platform. Behind him, he hears Tech and Echo both drawing their own weapons.
One of the women steps forward, both hands raised in a placating gesture, and says, “Sir, we are here to help you. Please put your weapons down.”
Hunter can feel his brothers’ tension behind him, can hear the click of plastoid armor and the creak of synthleather gloves. The security guards have reached the platform, and have small blasters in their hands. Stingbeams, he realizes. Weapons to subdue, not to kill.
The woman takes another step forward, hands still up, and says, with calm confidence, “Sir, put your weapons down so we can help your friend.”
Behind him, Crosshair wheezes.
Hunter puts down his blaster.
As he straightens back up, he can hear Tech and Echo putting their own weapons down. The second the last blaster clacks against the platform, the woman in white rushes forward, closely followed by three others dressed in the same uniform. One steers a hover-stretcher, which they stop in front of Wrecker.
“Lay him here,” they instruct, and Wrecker glances at Hunter with wide eyes. Hunter’s responding nod is stiff, but Wrecker nods back and gently lays Crosshair on the stretcher. The woman who had instructed them to put down their weapons is scanning Crosshair’s head before it even fully hits the padded surface.
She begins rattling off numbers that don’t make any sense to Hunter, though Tech has an intense expression like he’s following along. After a moment, they begin to steer the hover-stretcher away, and something in Hunter’s gut goes cold. He steps to follow them, but the security guards block his way.
Hunter glares at them, feels Wrecker shift behind him and the ominous crack of knuckles. Omega fidgets beside them; he can see her wring her hands from the corner of his eye. She scoots out of his view towards Wrecker, probably to calm him down, but the big clone presses forward with a growl anyway.
“Sir, you need to -”
“It’s alright,” a voice calls, and Hunter’s eyes snap to the approaching figures.
The man in front looks relatively unassuming - human, well-dressed but in soft neutrals that don’t make him stand out, and not particularly tall or imposing - but he carries himself with the bearing of someone who expects to be obeyed. He waves a hand and says, “They’re cleared,” and the security guards both holster their blasters and shift into a relaxed semblance of attention.
The man in the back is wearing familiar armor, worn grey and faded blue. Echo makes a soft noise as Rex removes his helmet, tucks it under his arm, and strides up to meet them. Echo meets him halfway, pulling him into an embrace.
The other man smiles softly at the two brothers before turning to offer his hand to Hunter. His grip is surprisingly strong, and he says, “Senator Bail Organa. You must be Clone Force 99.”
“We are,” Hunter says, trying to remember what he’s heard about the senator from Alderaan. Something about him supporting clone rights, he thinks, but he can’t recall hearing any more than that.
“Come with me. They won’t let you in to see your teammate until he’s stable, but I can take you somewhere you can wait.”
The senator leads them to that seems to be a private waiting room. It’s decorated in neutral blues and greys, scattered with various comfortable-looking chairs and benches. One wall is made up entirely of glass, leading to a small balcony with an attached landing platform. There is a woman sitting along the opposite wall. She smiles at them as they enter, then turns her attention back to the bundle in her arms.
They settle in to wait. Tech sits and begins scrolling through his datapad, ignoring the rest of the world. Wrecker takes Omega over to the window to look out at the city. Senator Organa pauses to speak to the pair of guards flanking the door, then joins Hunter, Echo, and Rex.
The Senator clasps his hands behind his back and says, “My informant tells me that the Empire has apparently done this to several prison ships. It’s an experiment in biological warfare, testing what viruses they can turn loose on the people who resist them. What they do, how they spread…” He shakes his head with a tired sigh.
“And prison ships are perfect targets,” Hunter concludes. “People they already want to get rid of.”
“Built-in quarantine,” Echo adds.
Senator Organa nods. “Rojo Fever is… worse than I anticipated. I’ll let my allies know to prepare for the worst. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I’ve already been assured,” he says, glancing askance at Rex, “that you’re not interested in joining our cause?”
Echo shifts, but doesn’t contradict Hunter when he says, “No. We have other priorities. I’m sorry.”
The senator nods, looking fondly over at the woman and now-squirming bundle in her arms. “I understand. We appreciate what you’ve done for us already.”
Before Hunter can respond to that, the woman stands and walks over to them. The way she moves reminds him of Senator Organa, but also of another senator he’d seen on the holonet once, the one from Naboo.
“Bail, I’m going to go feed her.” She turns to Hunter and says, “Would your daughter like to come? I know waiting can be… trying.”
Hunter’s brain turns into static at the word ‘daughter,’ but Omega must have been listening in, because she bounds forward and pleads, “Hunter, may I?”
He wants to keep her in his sight, but a bored Wrecker is bad enough without a bored Omega to go along with him. After a moment of hesitation, he nods and says, “But take someone with you?”
“Of course,” the woman says, dipping her head gracefully and then turning to Echo. “You must be Echo. Rex’s brother, yes? Would you like to come with us?”
“Uh… Yes, ma’am?” Rex snorts softly and shoves Echo after the woman as she takes Omega’s hand and leads her out into the hallway.
Tech follows them to the doorway, where he flags down one of the medcenter workers and begins asking questions. Wrecker, now without Omega to distract him, begins whining about being hungry. The senator exchanges a few quiet words with Rex, then steps away to make a call.
And now to wait.
Hunter finds a seat along the wall, closes his eyes, and tips his head back. He can hear voices, Tech’s and Wrecker’s among them, and the steady beeps of monitors, and footsteps. If he concentrates, he can make out the hum of the air circulation systems, the buzz of the electric lights, the distant roar of traffic.
A soft chirp breaks through the quiet cacophony of medcenter noises that Hunter is trying to sort out. He looks in the direction of the sound to see Rex tap the comlink on his vambrace. A tiny projection flickers to life, but before Hunter can get a good look at the figure, Rex turns on his heel and strides out onto the landing platform.
Hunter glances over at his siblings. Tech is still listening to the medical assistant as she explains the lasting effects of Rojo Fever. He probably could find it all on a database somewhere, but collecting information has always been Tech’s specialty. Wrecker is sitting beside him, grumbling about being hungry. Tech studiously ignores him.
Hunter has never been quite as curious as Tech, but he likes to know what’s going on. And Rex has been so secretive about his contacts that Hunter can’t deny his curiosity. He stands and moves so he can see the captain standing just outside the glass doors to the balcony.
The little blue hologram projected above Rex’s vambrace is partially hidden by the captain’s shoulder, but Hunter can make out a nondescript cloak with a large hood. Oddly, the hood dips in the center of the head, as if it’s covering a headdress or some sort of horns.
The figure and Rex seem to exchange words for a minute or so, though too quietly for Hunter to make out any more than the vibrations of their voices. Then Rex nods, snaps to attention, and ends the transmission.
If Rex is surprised by Hunter stepping out onto the balcony seconds after the transmission ends, he hides it well. He turns to face the younger clone, and Hunter can’t help but notice that he looks… maybe not younger, but certainly less exhausted than he had a few minutes before. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes that Hunter’s come to recognize means trouble when he sees it in Echo.
Determination.
Purpose.
Hope.
“You’re leaving?” Hunter asks, and it’s not really a question.
“Yeah. Might have a lead on an old friend.”
Hunter nods. He wants to ask more questions, but he knows he won’t get a single straight answer. Besides, his priority right now has to be elsewhere. “Well,” he says, “maybe don’t go without saying goodbye to the others. Echo complained for weeks. Omega was worried you didn’t like her.”
Rex chuckles, rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, Echo let me know he wasn’t happy with me.”
Hunter actually laughs at that, then taps his comlink to call Echo. “Rex has to leave. We’re on the balcony.”
A small burst of static, and then, “Copy that. We’re on our way.”
Rex rests his forearms against the railing and looks out at the city. Hunter joins him, watching the ships streaking in gleaming lines across the mountains. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the snowcaps that almost makes them look like they’re on fire. He’s not really in the practice of valuing beauty, but this place is undeniably beautiful, peaceful in the way only a place that hasn’t seen war is.
Rex, and by extension the Senator, is risking this for them.
“Rex,” Hunter says. The blond clone turns back to him, one eyebrow arching. “Thank you.”
Rex gives him a nod and a very sad smile. “We’ve lost enough brothers.”
Hunter remembers Rex saying something about not wanting to bury any more brothers and thinks, once again, that it may not have been metaphorical. He thinks of how he’d felt when he’d looked into the cell and thought his brother was dead. He stops himself before he can imagine what it would feel like to find all of his brothers like that, beyond any hope of saving. He doesn’t let himself think about what it would be like to put everyone he ever cared about into the ground.
The lines on Rex’s face, the shadows beneath his eyes are so prominent.
“Thank you,” Hunter repeats, letting every ounce of his gratitude seep into the words.
Rex doesn’t respond because the glass door behind them slides open and Omega comes running out, Echo following more slowly behind her. The girl runs straight up to Rex and flings her arms around his waist. “Thank you,” she says, “for helping us. I’m sorry you have to go.”
Surprisingly, Rex doesn’t look too shocked by the sudden hug. He gently pries Omega’s arms away, but just so he can crouch to be on her level. “It’s alright,” he tells her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to see a friend.”
Omega smiles and reaches up to squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, then pushes himself back upright just as Echo reaches them.
“Take care of them, yeah?” Rex says to Omega, then, raising his voice so Echo can hear, adds, “Especially Echo. Force knows he’s a magnet for trouble.”
“Kriff you, too, Rex,” Echo replies. Rex grins at him, and the ARC trooper strides the last few steps to his brother and gently knocks their foreheads together. After a moment, Rex pulls him into a hug.
Omega bounds over to Hunter and says, “I got to hold the new princess! She’s so cute!”
“You- what?”
Before Omega can launch into an explanation, Rex says, “Hunter.” His voice is suddenly serious, and the lines on his face are back. “If the Empire finds out about this…”
The Senator and his family. The medcenter staff. Anyone who has helped them without turning them in is now a traitor to the Empire. Hunter thinks of Crosshair, his little brother, curled up in a cell and left to die. The Empire has no loyalty to its own. He doesn’t want to think of what they would do to those who oppose them.
Hunter nods sharply, but it’s Echo who responds, all fierce protectiveness, “The Empire’s not getting him back.”
Rex holds Echo’s gaze for a long moment and then nods back to Hunter. “I trust you.”
Hunter tries not to think about the weight of that too much, so he says, “We owe you. If you need anything…”
“I know,” Rex says with a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll call.”
He presses his forehead to Echo’s one more time, then turns and strides away toward one of the further platforms.
Hunter’s comlink chirps. When he taps it to answer, Tech’s voice rings through the air, “I’ve been informed that Crosshair is in stable condition, and that we may see him if we wish.”
He meets Echo's intense gaze for a second before they both turn and rush back into the medcenter, Omega on their heels. Tech and Wrecker are waiting for them, along with a Mirialan medcenter worker who offers them a nod before gesturing for them to follow.
The Mirialan leads them down several hallways, before stopping them in front of a door and turning to tell them, in a light Coruscanti accent, “It is unlikely your brother will wake for a while. However, if he does, please press the call button so we can check his vitals and adjust medication as necessary.”
“Of course,” Tech says, seeming offended that the Mirialan had felt the need to explain how medcenters work.
Echo places a hand on Tech’s shoulder before he can say anything else and offers the Mirialan a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
The Mirialan gives them a smile and a slight bow and then leaves them to stare apprehensively at the door.
After a long moment, Hunter pulls his gaze away to see the others staring at him. Expectant. He's the leader, and they're letting him make the call. He takes a deep breath and taps the control pad, and the door slides silently open.
The room is dark and quiet, with only the gentle beeps and soft hums of machines to fill the cool air. Crosshair is asleep on the medical bed in the center of the room, pale and still, but alive . If he listens carefully, Hunter can hear the soft hiss of his brother’s breathing, the steady thump of his heartbeat, and he feels almost weak at the relief of it. Now that Crosshair is out of immediate danger, it’s hard to ignore the tightness in his own throat or the burning in his eyes.
As much as he wants to sit on the floor and weep, Hunter forces himself to walk into the room, if only to make room for his other brothers and Omega to file in behind him. Someone - the Senator, he suspects - had the room accommodated to suit their squad, with enough chairs for all of them to sit around the bed. It’s a bit of a tight fit, but shockingly, no one complains.
No one speaks at all.
One by one, his family drops off to sleep as the hours tick by. Omega is out almost as soon as she curls up in the chair. Wrecker starts snoring at one point and Tech, only half awake to begin with, fiddles with his datapad before drifting back off as some audio begins playing in his helmet.
Echo does that creepy thing where he dozes off with his eyes open and aimed vaguely at the door. He told Hunter once that it was a thing ARC troopers were trained to do, so they were just aware enough to react in a dangerous situation, but Hunter suspects he does it half the time just to freak out his squadmates. It’s certainly unsettling enough.
Exhausted as he is, Hunter can’t seem to rest. His eyes burn, but it’s worse when he closes them, so he keeps them open. If he lets himself think about the day’s events - and Force, has it only been a day? - the lump in his throat returns, so he keeps his mind as blank as he can.
After what must be hours, long enough for the sky to go dark save for the flash of passing ships, long enough for his limbs to ache and his joints to pop when he finally moves, the heart monitor picks up speed. It’s barely perceptible; Hunter suspects he only heard it because of his enhanced senses. But it beeps a little faster.
He sits up so fast it hurts, eyes scanning the screen beside the bed before deciding that there’s too much information on it for him to try sorting it out. Instead he watches as Crosshair’s fingers twitch once, twice; as his eyes roll beneath paperthin lids; as his head shifts to the side and he winces at the movement.
Very slowly, Crosshair peels his eyes open and squints into the darkness. Even with his enhanced eyesight, he seems to have trouble finding anything to focus on, gaze meandering around the room and over the Batch without any sign of recognition. Hunter sits frozen, torn between wanting to hug his brother and wanting to walk out into the hallway and keep walking forever.
As Crosshair’s eyes begin to slip shut, Hunter lurches forward. The movement catches Crosshair’s wandering gaze; his eyes snap to Hunter’s face and he pulls in a slightly laboured breath. The illness has taken a toll - Crosshair, usually the best at hiding his emotions behind a veneer of scorn, is too weak to conceal the gleam of something akin to hope in his eyes.
“Hunter?” he breathes, and Hunter manages a nod. Crosshair searches his face, eyes flickering from his hair to his tattoo to his armor and finally back to his eyes.
“...are you… real this time?” he wheezes.
Hunter swallows and nods again. Carefully, slowly, he places his palm on Crosshair’s wrist, letting his fingers curl around to feel his brother’s pulse thrumming beneath the still too-warm skin. Crosshair shifts in his loose grasp, turning his hand over to press his fingers against Hunter’s pulse point in return. Then he lets out a ragged sigh and sags back into the pillows.
“It’s okay, Cross,” Hunter murmurs as his brother’s eyes slip shut and his breathing evens out. “We’re all here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
When he’s sure Crosshair is asleep, he releases Crosshair’s hand and leans back. Heat prickles at his eyes and he blinks it away. Across from him, Echo shifts and Hunter glances up to meet his eyes. The ARC Trooper's gaze is soft in that older-brother way that he normally looks around Omega and sometimes Tech. Echo nods to him before shifting in his chair and then slipping back into his open-eyed doze.
Hunter settles back into his chair and closes his eyes and lets the hum of machinery and the whisper of his family’s breathing finally lull him to sleep.