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.