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I.
Experimental Unit 99 is different. That’s a tough thing to be in a facility that demands unity and conformity above all. They make the other clones nervous, and they make them angry; not just because they’re different, but because they’re allowed to be. Any slip, any deviation, and punishment is swiftly meted out to the young regs: disciplinary hearings, remedial tracks… and for the worst offenses, a last resort named only in skittish whispers: reconditioning pods.
Hunter’s unit is different, and they go unpunished for it. That’s the greatest crime of all.
He knows this, has known it for nearly as long as he’s been alive. He doesn’t hate the regs for it. He understands why they feel that way. But he doesn’t let that stop him from growing out his hair, from wearing a scarlet bandana around his throat, from painting a skull on his face—marking himself, the only one in their unit able to pass as a reg—as one of their own. He protects his brothers and does what has to be done, regardless of the scorn it causes.
II.
Crosshair isn’t a talker. He thinks clones speak way more than necessary, especially the regs. They waste so much time and breath bragging loudly or trying to goad his unit into fights with petty insults. Crosshair never responds; he hardly gives them a sneer for their trouble. But his own brothers aren't much better. Wrecker will blather endlessly, and he laughs too loud and for far too long. Tech expounds for hours about classifications and components, his voice droning on like the endless Kaminoan rain.
Hunter, however, is less annoying than the rest. He communicates when he needs to, enough to give command and assure their brothers and watchers that all’s well. But left to his own devices, he thinks much more than he speaks.
He isn’t just smart, Crosshair thinks, he’s keen.
It’s the thought that hangs in his mind when Hunter pulls down the blanket of his bunk one night and shifts back, looking at Crosshair expectantly. The Kaminoans said Hunter’s enhanced intuition comes from his sensitivity to electromagnetic frequencies, but sometimes, Crosshair wonders if it’s more than that. Without a single word spoken between them, he knows what Crosshair needs with an accuracy that borders on eerie.
Crosshair crawls into his brother’s bunk. Hunter drapes the blanket over them before he can retreat. They lay on their backs, staring at the alcove’s ceiling. It’s dark, but Crosshair’s sharp eyes find the shapes etched into it by the precise lines of a knife: a skull, Wrecker’s tooka doll, a silhouette that looks suspiciously like the Togruta general that sometimes wanders the halls.
They rest next to each other in silence. With two bodies, the space under the blanket is even warmer. Crosshair listens to the rain, to Hunter’s breathing—slow, at ease. He follows the lines of his brother’s etchings until his eyelids begin to droop. Then Hunter shifts, turning towards him, drawing his attention.
“Don’t let them get to you, Cross.” He curls his arm over Crosshair’s stomach, gives a small squeeze before relaxing.
Crosshair’s mind returns to afternoon training. Target practice, specialized for the sniper track, just him surrounded by regs. He was the only one to hit all the targets, and he’d been thirty meters farther away than the rest of them.
“He was created that way. How’re we supposed to compete?”
“He’s not special. He’s a freak.”
Crosshair refused to give them the pleasure of his retaliation. He was more than just a single clone. Perhaps regs could fall back into the anonymity of their ranks, but what Crosshair did reflected on his unit, on his brothers.
He had walked away, straight-backed, shoulders tight enough to twinge.
Hunter’s fingers tighten against his side. Crosshair shakes his head, exhales slowly. He is warm. He is safe. He is understood.
“I don’t.”
He answers truthfully, because Hunter can usually tell when he lies, but also because he doesn’t want to lie to him. Hunter smiles, sharing that truth in the small but sure curl of his lips. Crosshair turns back to the ceiling and smiles too.
He doesn’t think he can fall asleep here; he’s always been so restless, waking at the slightest disturbance. So he waits for Hunter’s breath to even out, for his brother to grow sleep heavy so he can sneak off to his own bunk. Only Crosshair falls asleep instead, and he doesn’t wake up at all during the night.
In the morning, he comes to in a pile of limbs, his feet interlocked with Hunter’s at the heels and his arm still around him. His brother is snoring, and when Crosshair turns over to look, a line of drool has dampened Hunter’s pillow.
He snorts and gives Hunter a shake.
III.
Crosshair and Hunter share bunks from time to time. They don’t try to hide it, but even if they had, it wouldn’t have stopped Wrecker from bringing it up.
“It’s not fair, Hunter,” Wrecker groans one night as he pulls on his pajamas for sleep. “I’m a great hugger, but I’m not invited to nighttime snuggles? ’M plenty big enough for two, even if one of you is prickly.”
Wrecker loops his arm around Crosshair’s shoulders, dragging him into his side. A dull, angry blush rises to Crosshair’s cheeks, but that doesn’t dissuade him. He picks up his brother instead, crushing him to his chest. “See? It’s nice, right?”
“Wrecker—” Crosshair hisses, but the sound doesn’t have its normal venom. Either Wrecker’s hug is working, or it's working too well, and cutting off his brother’s air supply.
Hunter steps forward, arm outstretched as he opens his mouth to speak, but Tech cuts him off without looking up from his datapad.
“Your observations are misguided, Wrecker. It is not skill you lack. It is a lack of necessity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wrecker asks, frowning. Crosshair takes the opportunity to free himself, turning away from his brothers with a scowl.
“Sleeping next to Hunter increases the quality of his sleep, which has also improved other aspects of his life—most notably his mood and tactical prowess.”
“Now that you mention it, he has been a little less down in the dumps lately… but if it works with Hunter, then the more the merrier, right?”
Crosshair’s shoulders nearly rise to his ears, which also begin turning an alarmingly dark shade of red.
“That remains to be seen. It would be an interesting experiment—”
“Guys—” Hunter interrupts.
“No, look,” Wrecker says, “we’re brothers, right? Vod. Any job’s gotta be spread among the unit. Even Crosshair knows that. I want to help.”
Crosshair’s shoulders lower, and Hunter sighs. Wrecker smiles. His brother only sighs like that when he’s made a good point.
Hunter folds his arms in front of his chest. “What do you think, Cross?”
Wrecker tries not to bounce from foot to foot while he waits for his brother’s reply. Crosshair tenses again, then he sighs, turning towards them. His face is still faintly flushed. He looks at the far wall as he says “we can try it.”
“Alright!” Wrecker yells, scooping Crosshair into his arms again. This time his brother doesn’t lock up like a faulty droid. Well, not completely.
“Though the matter is settled, there remains a logistical problem,” Tech says, finally placing his datapad down. “A standard issue bunk will not hold four clones, even adolescent ones.”
“You’re joining too?” Wrecker replies, his grin taking up the entire lower half of his face. “This is gonna be so fun.”
“It isn’t fun. It’s just sleeping—” Crosshair grumbles.
“Nu uh. I hear you guys whispering sometimes. Sharing secrets, I’ll bet.”
“We don’t—” Crosshair and Hunter say in unison.
“See? All those secrets are making you sound like regs.”
“If we align our mattresses by their lengths, we can create a combined sleeping area. Two blankets would serve well as an alternative to a bunk’s enclosure.”
Wrecker lets Crosshair go and bounds towards the nearest bunk, yanking its mattress out of its alcove. Tech begins marking the space where the blankets should attach to the circular table in the middle of the room and one of the storage chests across from it.
Crosshair grasps his own bicep, rubbing his temples with his free hand. Hunter steps up next to him, nudging him gently in the arm.
“They mean well,” he whispers, just low enough for Crosshair to hear.
“I know,” Crosshair says irritably. Then he looks up, takes in his brothers and the beginnings of their makeshift fort. The tension around his mouth softens. “I know.”
IV.
Though they are supposed to sleep, they stay up half the night talking. It affects their training the next day, punctuates their meals with sleepy blinking and lots of yawning.
Hunter limits such sleeping arrangements to an as-needed basis. But, as it turns out, those occur a lot more often than any of them thought they would.
V.
Echo is a reg. He didn’t grow up with his brothers. He doesn’t understand them. But to Hunter, that doesn’t matter at all. Echo chose them, and that’s good enough for him.
Hunter’s grown. He’s learned that regs aren’t so different from them, not in the ways that matter. And Echo is far from a run-of-the-mill clone, even before his capture changed him.
Echo is quiet during the first few days he spends with Unit 99. That’s okay. Hunter’s used to quiet. He’s had plenty of practice.
His new brother sneaks off to talk to Rex once in a while. Hunter doesn’t know what they talk about, but he always seems better afterward, more relaxed.
Echo never takes off his prosthetics, not in front of them. He must wait until they’re all asleep before he does it, because Hunter’s caught him putting them back on early in the morning, before the rising bell.
Tech pesters him about his cybernetics, nosy in a way that only he could get away with. Echo balks at first, but he lets himself be studied once he realizes Tech doesn’t mean any harm by it. Tech hums and clicks his tongue, rattling off the section numbers, each component’s functionality, how they could be augmented for further ease of use.
“Tech, you’re boring the guy,” Wrecker says. He’s sitting at the table at the center of their room, making a tower of sabacc cards. Hunter wonders where he got such obvious contraband, but he’s not sure he wants to know.
Tech interrupts his study of Echo’s socket arm to look up at him. “Am I boring you, Echo?”
“What? No,” Echo says with a weak smile. “I’m not bored. It’s just… a lot to take in.”
“I’m overwhelming you,” Tech replies. He clears his throat and lets his hands fall away from his arm. “My apologies.”
“It’s okay. I know you mean well.” Echo gently places his hand on Tech’s shoulder. “If you could make a list of suggested upgrades, I could review them more thoroughly.”
Tech grins. “Excellent idea. An itemized list would be a more productive use of our time.”
“Yeah, why don’t you do that later? It’s time for sabacc,” Wrecker announces, destroying his impressively high card tower in a dismissive swing of his hand. “Hunter? Crosshair? You in too?”
“You’re a terrible gambler, Wrecker,” Crosshair says from his bunk, but he does sit up and walk over, toothpick balanced at the edge of his mouth.
“It’s not fun unless the bets are big!” Wrecker replies.
“Not that we even have anything big to bet,” Hunter says. He also converges on the table and helps to gather the fallen cards.
“Could bet favors. Ooh, or our new grenade supply since they got divvied up equally. I could always use a few more explosions.”
“You seem to make more explosions than the rest of us combined, with or without the extra supply,” Echo says. His small smile widens a little as he sits down at the table.
“I can confirm that Wrecker has a forty-three percent higher destruction rate than the rest of the unit,” Tech agrees, taking the last empty chair.
Wrecker tsks, puffing his cheeks out. “Awww, only forty-three percent? Seems a little too low.” His glee returns quickly as he begins to deal the cards.
They end up playing for favors. In an unexpected turn, Hunter is the one that ends up with the nexu’s share of losses, but he takes it in good stride.
VI.
Echo is a restless sleeper. He makes noises as he dreams, whimpers bits and pieces of himself. One phrase in particular stands out to Hunter, the same number, over and over: Five, or perhaps Fives. The fragment of a plan, maybe, or a part of a designation. Regardless, the problem is manageable and hardly surprising. All clones are plagued by nightmares now, and everyone’s learned to live with it.
Only this time, Echo wakes up screaming.
Hunter’s at Echo’s bunk in an instant, gently shaking him awake. The others are stirring too. Crosshair is already behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“Echo, wake up. You’re dreaming. You’re okay,” Hunter says. Echo’s eyes roll sickeningly in their sockets, his body thrashing beneath Hunter’s hands. Hunter gives him another shake—harder this time.
As soon as Echo opens his eyes properly, they’re welling with tears. It happens quickly, silently. His brothers follow an order that Hunter doesn’t have to give.
Hunter eases Echo up into his arms, gently rubbing circles into his upper back, shushing him as his brother shakes. Behind him, Wrecker collects the mattresses and Tech arranges the blankets. Hunter meets Crosshair’s eyes over Echo’s shoulder. He nods.
“You’re safe, vod. You’re here with us. We’re going to move you now. Not far. Just to somewhere more comfortable, okay?”
Echo buries his face into the crook of Hunter’s neck and nods, keeps nodding as Hunter lifts him out of the bunk with Crosshair helping to keep his balance.
The area is thankfully ready, and Hunter eases Echo beneath the blanket canopy. Wrecker’s inside waiting to intercept them, taking up the task of rubbing Echo’s back as he stays plastered to Hunter’s front. Crosshair and Tech bring up the rear. Tech hands a canteen of water to Crosshair. Crosshair leans over Hunter, waiting until the worst of the sobs pass to gently touch Echo’s shoulder.
“Drink,” he says, not quite looking at him. Wrecker narrows his eyes at Crosshair. “It will make you feel better,” he continues, more softly than before.
Echo nods shakily again, and Crosshair holds the canteen for him to drink, allowing Echo’s hand to stay fisted in Hunter’s shirt.
They haven’t done this in a long time, Hunter realizes. Not since they were younger, not since the war ramped up. It’s not like the times they stayed up half the night talking, nor is it like the rare occasions they’d taken one another aside, dried their tears, and fallen asleep in pairs when a larger audience—even one of brothers—was too much to bear.
It’s different. The space is too small for grown men; the makeshift fort is part of a childhood they barely had. And even as Hunter holds a new, shaken brother in his arms, a deep, unspoken comfort sinks into his bones, resonating with the heat of his vod settling in around him.
It’s a comfort that spreads and touches the rest, that eases the remnants of terror from Echo’s body, that dries his cheeks and has his eyes drifting closed once more.
Hunter tries to stay awake. He manages it, for a time, until the rest of his brothers are sleeping. He listens to Echo’s breathing, feels it against his chest, calm, at peace. He lets that peace take him too.
VII.
The next time they pile together, Hunter is the one carried to its center. He’s half-delirious, numb in a way that tells him he’s hurt, that he’s got enough drugs in his system to knock out a rancor. Tech touches his face, then he turns away in a blur, says something that Hunter can’t quite process.
… stable. Picked up her signal… Bane… T-minus…
Hunter’s warm, at least. He thinks that’s Wrecker behind him, holding him a little too tight. He doesn’t mind; he wouldn’t be able to feel it otherwise. Tech draws close again, pulls a blanket over them both. Past Tech, someone settles down. Echo.
Complete. Good. Warm. Hunter can rest. He closes his eyes, tries to relax. He’s tired. So tired.
But something is wrong.
“Where’s Crosshair?” he croaks.
Wrecker stiffens behind him, holding his breath. The dull hum of the Marauder rumbles in the silence. No one says anything for a long time.
Then Wrecker breathes out. Hunter feels sick all over again, and he doesn’t know why.
“He’s gone, Hunter.” Wrecker’s voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “We left him.”
Something ricochets through the hull, a jarring sound tailing their staggered whispers. It continues, and after a moment or two, Hunter realizes it’s coming from his own mouth.
The sense of wrongness, of sorrow, bubbles up his throat and breaks into another sob, joining the burn of his eyes, the ache of his tears. A moment of clarity. He’d been shot. Omega was taken. What is he doing? He needs to lead. He needs to get a grip and find their sister, needs to find Crosshair. He needs to fix everything. But he can’t move. He’s useless. Useless.
Wrecker’s arms tighten around him, pull him so close he feels as small as a child. Hands settle on Hunter’s cheeks, tip his head down. Tech places his forehead against his own. Echo reaches forward, rubs Hunter’s upper arm, up and down, up and down.
His brothers gather around him, hold him close, and for the first time in Hunter’s life, it isn’t enough.