#ct-9904

Crosshair’s shoulders lowered and he shoved the woman out of his face with a short growl, turned his back to her and ran a hand over the silver stubble growing back over his scalp with an embarrassed sigh. No one had ever seen him like this aside from his brothers, the scared and broken child he still was in his nightmares. It was bad enough he’d gotten onto a ship with strangers and let them strip him of his weapons and armor, worse still that they’d seen him at his most vulnerable physically. And now they were getting a glimpse at his karked-up psyche too? It was more than he wanted to share.

“You’re welcome,” Trinn retorted with an indignant huff as she stood up, shook her arms and shoulders out and stepped away from him.

Behind her, the nails of an enormous Massiff clicked against the durasteel as it stood and approached the edge of its enclosure with a whine. Trinn leaned down to reach through the grate and stroked the side of its head with a Jate’dala, mirdala, and his stomach churned. He’d never had much experience with creatures, aside from his brief ride on the local fauna on Skako Minor and Sergeant Vau’s strill snapping in his face, and those had been two very polarizing experiences he had no desire to expand on anytime soon.

“How long’s it been since you ate last?” she broke after a brief silence.

Crosshair tensed and half-turned his head to look at her out the corner of one eye.

“You’re shaking, worse than before,” she noted, hoping to ease his apprehension.

He followed her eyes to his shaking arm and tucked it closer to his body. Shab, he was so used to it by now he couldn’t feel it anymore. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she half-mumbled as she approached and stopped to squat in front of him at eye-level, scrutinizing his face. He grunted and turned away from her to avoid eye contact, but she persisted long enough to confirm her suspicion.

“Breath’s sweet, that’s ketosis,” she noted as she dug into one of the packs on her hip, then offered him a slab of Gihaal, along with a pack of biscuits, and a small handful of fruit and nuts. “You’ve gotta eat something, but do it slowly. Don’t make yourself sicker than you already are.”

He stared long and hard at the rations in her outstretched hand and ran his tongue over his dry and cracking lips, debating whether or not to trust it even as his stomach gnarled and screamed at him to take the damn food.

“It’s not poisoned,” she insisted, snapped off a piece of the fishmeal and knocked it back. Trinn chewed and swallowed, popped her brows, and stuck out her tongue to show her empty mouth. “See?”

Watching someone else eat when he was starving to death got the better of him. Crosshair snatched the food out of her hand like a ravenous strill and dumped the nuts and fruit into his mouth in one go with a quiet grunt of approval, and he chewed slowly, savoring the contrast of the salty nuts and barely sweet berries. He hadn’t had anything with flavor in close to three weeks, rations had never tasted so good.

Crosshair scooted back to re-seat himself on the bench for the back support, and closed his eyes as he ate, his whole body releasing the tension he’d been holding onto for far too long. 

Trinn’s footsteps moved away from him across the hold to rummage through a storage locker, then moved back and dropped a hydropac into his lap. He flinched and scowled at her as she plopped bodily onto the bench perpendicular to the one he was on, kicked her heels up on the bench beside him, and crossed her arms.

“So how long were you out on that platform before we found’ja?” she asked as he tore off another chunk of the fishmeal. 

Crosshair never had been much of a conversationalist, much less one to converse with his enemies- but he could tell she wasn’t going to leave him alone, so he humored her, careful not to give away anything of value.

“Nine rotations,” he replied out the corner of his mouth mid-chew.

She blinked slow and wide-eyed, whistled low, and shook her head. “And you were really considering letting us leave ya there?”

He grimaced at the question as he swallowed. Crosshair thought for sure he’d die miserable and alone before the Night Watch had shown up, insisting they could “save him”. Yes, he had considered staying behind again. 

Because he’d already made the decision to stay. 

Because he deserved the punishment. 

Because… because after everything, he didn’t believe he deserved another chance. 

Not that any of that was her business.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked after a brief silence, his tone prodding.

“Reports said Tipoca was hazed in a storm”, she replied, watching his reaction carefully. “After what we saw, we were shocked anyone had survived.”

He scoffed with a wry smirk as he cracked open the hydropac, lifted and sipped at it, then set a solemn gaze on the floor across from him. “Is that what they’re saying?”

Trinn’s expression turned heavy with the weight of grave understanding, and she leaned forward with her elbows over her knees as she digested what he’d inferred. “… storms don’t do that kinda damage.”

He glanced briefly at her, then looked the Gihaal in his hand, his eyes betraying his otherwise emotionless exterior. “No, they don’t.”

Most clones had considered Kamino their home, but he’d never cared for it. Maybe he’d have been more torn up about its destruction if he’d had more fond memories of Tipoca City, but instead he was just numb. That it was gone now didn’t bother him half as much as the hard realization that things could never go back to the way they were, no matter how badly he wanted it to. Their squad barracks were the only part of Tipoca that had ever really meant anything to him, but even that had stopped being a place of comfort in the last six months. The last time he’d slept there, he was already alone, already othered; now it was sitting at the bottom of the sea, irreparable, like the damage he’d done. It was all too poetic.

“How bad were the casualties, really?” she asked with more urgency in her voice. “Are you sure you were the only one left?”

“There were no clones left in that facility,” he replied, a slight twinge of annoyance in the edges of his tone. “The Empire finished moving all essential personnel out of the city weeks ago, so if you were hoping you could convert more regs to your cause, it was a wasted trip.”

Trinn frowned as she sat back and crossed her arms again. “So then what in the nine hells were you doin’ there?” she asked, side-stepping the accusation. “Imps just left you for dead? Aren’t’cha onna them?”

The karking twitch in his shoulder gave him away again, and Crosshair grunted in frustration and looked away from her.

“Ah… sore subject then.”

“Classified, if you must know,” he snapped back, at which she chuffed and rolled her eyes before folding her hands behind her head and slumping down to lounge.

“How’d you survive that kriff-storm?”

He flashed back briefly to the moment he woke up to Omega struggling to free him from debris while the water rose around him, then to she and Tech guiding them through the tube system to the lab where they’d been decanted. To AZI guiding their capsules to the surface, to the moment he’d saved the kid, then again to their angry faces as they’d turned their weapons against him.

“I had help,” he admitted at last, wanting to close the book on it.

“From the Empire?”

He hesitated to answer, but found himself compelled to. “... from others, like me.”

“Thought you said there were no clones left.”

“There aren’t.”

“So they died? Or did they leave ya there too?”

“I chose to stay,” he sneered, lip curled, nose wrinkled and hackles raised. The accusation that Clone Force 99 had chosen to leave him behind again elicited a response far more severe than he expected, considering up until ten days ago he’d believed they’d abandoned their loyalty to him. The heat in his own voice now surprised him.

 “Why? Did you think the Empire was coming back for ya?” 

Deep down he didn’t really think they were, and he knew it now. The day he’d first stood at the crossroads of his life, he’d found himself paralyzed by crippling shame. Despite his family’s offer of forgiveness, he hadn’t yet atoned, and he wouldn’t let himself apologize until he did.  He chose the way he did because to him, it had been the only choice that would make him worthy of redemption from his family. 

So when these three had arrived and created a third branching path, with an offer for a fresh start and to atone for his wrongdoings without having to leave his fate in the hands of the Empire, he froze. Had he not been so sick and miserable, Crosshair wouldn’t have agreed to board the Night Watch ship and just waited to die on that platform.

He kept telling himself he’d left with them for the sake of survival, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his path had already been dramatically altered by fate. Force, it had to be some sick joke. After all, what did his life really mean in the grand scheme of life-after-war? Crosshair didn’t even know who he was without the Republic Army or the Empire. So how could the Night Watch?

Crosshair turned his back to her and shifted further away to lean his shoulder and head against the bulkhead door, closed his eyes and hoped she wouldn’t ask anymore follow-up questions. For several minutes, she didn't, and he thought the conversation might be over, but it turned out she’d just been digesting and analysing his words. 

“You’re still chipped, aren’t’cha?”

He shot her a venomous look as a warning, but unsurprisingly, she kept talking.

“Sharp headaches, blind loyalty to an empire that formed overnight in the wake of genocide…” She tapped the right side of her head, just above her temple. “And no removal scar. We’ve seen it before.”

“And what of it?” he sneered.

“We’ve freed dozens of clones from their inhibitor chips who are now fightin’ to free more of your brothers- some of whom swore allegiance to the Night Watch. Believe it or not, we know what happened wasn’t the clones’ fault.”

He scoffed. “Didn’t take Mandalorians for jetiise sympathisers.”

“Didn’t say we were, just know you clones were forced t’follow orders against your will. I would have hated havin’ my autonomy stripped away like that.”

Trinn paused and shifted her gaze, tucked her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled on it as she considered what to say next. “We don’t care what happened to the jetiise,” she confirmed, “The Order inherited a slave army and didn’t question where it came from. It was corrupt to its core, and it needed to fall.”

Crosshair huffed in agreement as he shoved the last bit of the gihaal into his mouth and washed it down with the rest of the hydropac.

“But so was the Republic, and so is the Empire. Nothin’s changed, the mask just fell off, and now Palpatine’s fashy without consequence cause no one’s got the gett’se t’make him stop.”

“And?”

“Mir’sheb,” she spat, “They teach you nothin’ of politics in the GAR?”

“Sure they did, it just never mattered enough for me to have an opinion,” he drawled, the words curling and coiling. He was losing patience with this conversation. “It’s not like we’re citizens with a say.”

“Well it matters now, so lemme put it in terms you might understand a little better.” 

Trinn uncrossed her arms, put both feet on the floor, then leaned over her knees toward him and locked eyes onto his face.

“Fashy’s bad- it means they do what they want, when they want, lie to cover it up and explain it away however they want, cause civilians are none the wiser anyway.”

Crosshair knew the Empire operated in the blur between lines. He’d already gotten away with cold-blooded murder several times, the memory of which made him shiver. 

“What’s that got to do with the Jedi?”

 “Everything. They knew what Palps was planning, and they confronted him- but by that time, he’d consolidated power so effectively, he gave one order and wiped em’ out.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Did your Jedi Commander tell you that?” he mocked.

“Dar’jetii,” she corrected. “Commander Vizsla left the order halfway through the war. And yes, she did.”

His expression lit up at this revelation, and the lines in his face softened, a tell that he was still in there despite the controlled response. Crosshair, admittedly, understood nothing of the Jedi, other than that they were even more capable warriors than Commandos and could do things he’d once thought impossible; and that, according to General Skywalker, most of them had their heads so far up their shebs they were insufferable. For all their grandstanding about serving the greater good and having knowledge and wisdom beyond their years, they’d turned out to be just as bad as the Republic they served. That any of them had seen through the corruption and managed to get out before the osik hit the fan was… enlightening.

“They’re still traitors,” he seethed instead through the pain starting up again above his brow.

Trinn shrugged. “They’re gone, so what’s it matter? Any that survived are scramblin’ t’find their place in a galaxy that doesn’t want em’ anymore. You should know how that feels."

“How progressive of you,” he patronized.

“I’ve seen a lot in the last year that’s changed my perspective,” she said, ignoring his tone. “And I think you all deserve a second chance- for the hands you’ve been dealt, you deserve that much.”

It was the first time someone other than his family had shown him an ounce of compassion, and it was so foreign he didn’t know what to do with it. Crosshair shifted to shake off her sympathy, but it still worked its way into his chest and settled into his chest, under his ribs, where it simmered into rekindled hope. Something he couldn’t afford right now.

“I’ve made my choice,” he reiterated, deadpan and firm in his delivery. Because a chakaaryc like him deserved to rot in the deepest, darkest prison in the galaxy until they finally met their end.

“You said that already, but I think you’re missin’ the point.”

“And what’s that?” he exhaled, exasperated.

“Choices can always be un-made- or, if ya don’t like where you’re at, you can start choosin’ different.”

Cross’ jaw locked and he pressed his hand into his forehead over his brow as the stabbing pain shot through the right side of his head again. Whether he wanted to or not didn’t matter, because as long as he had that chip in his head, he’d never be able to make a choice for himself again.

“Listen- ah… what was your name?” she asked.

“Crosshair.”

“Crosshair- I don’t know what kind of pity-party osik you’re on, but running back to the people who left you for dead isn’t gonna work out the way you think it will.” 

The irony was, it would go exactly how he expected it to. “What do you know?” he sneered.

“I know when you hit rock bottom, it’s time to start climbin,” she answered honestly.

That she would insinuate to know what was dealing with both chaffed and soothed him. Of course she was still trying to recruit him, but he’d thought the Night Watch to be too self-aggrandizing to ever imply they’d done anything wrong. Crosshair knew he wasn’t the only person in the Galaxy with regrets, but he’d never expected to find camaraderie among Rebels. That raised more questions than he wanted to have.

“All I’m sayin’ is, y’ain’t dead yet, so you might as well fight like it.” 

Without his brothers, he may as well be- but she was right. 

It was becoming increasingly clear that the galaxy as he knew it never really existed at all, and Crosshair didn’t know how to reconcile that. He couldn’t reconnect with his family, didn’t have a purpose, held no value to the Empire as a soldier, and now he was realizing that what he’d been told about the Jedi was a lie. How could he have been so naive? Why hadn’t he just listened to what Hunter had been trying to tell him for the last eight months? 

And why the hell was he still trying to find his way back into Imperial favor if they’d been lying to him all along?

Crosshair stared into one of the darker corners of the hold and lost himself to another shame spiral- anger at his circumstances, resistance to honesty with himself, embarrassment that he would have been so easily fooled, then acceptance of reality. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his pride. It didn’t matter how anyone tried to spin it, he’d made those horrible decisions, and he needed to figure out how to live with it before he could really move forward.

The freighter rattled and shuddered around them as it dropped out of hyperspace, with an announcement soon to follow from who he assumed to be the pilot.

Arrival at Central City in fifteen minutes.

Trinn stood and collected his armor from around the hold, handing it to him with more care than before. “Better kit up and be ready. The Commander’s antsy enough as it is without sneakin’ through an Imperial fleet with a bogus transponder code,” she said with a friendly grin.

For the first time, Crosshair looked up to intentionally meet her eyes but wished he hadn’t. How could she still be smiling after the conversation they’d just had? He’d snapped and snarled and given her every reason to dislike him, but she’d never even flinched or taken the bait. Regs couldn’t keep a lid on their emotional outbursts when provoked, and even Hunter would have lost his temper and knocked his lights out, but Trinn had nerves of pure beskar and the temperance of a seasoned warrior. Were all women like this or just Mandalorian women?

He took his chestplate from her with a curt nod and slipped it on over his head. ES Trooper armor never had fit him right, and he couldn’t help thinking how much he missed his custom Kartan kit as he locked the thigh, leg, and arm plates into place over his bodysuit. Once the freighter finished its descent through the atmosphere, he stood and re-seated the pack onto his back, then curled a hand into the cargo webbing against the wall for support, and waited for the ship to land.

“Are you sure you really want to go running back to the Empire?” Trinn asked as she handed him his weapons.

It was the right thing to do—not dragging his family or strangers into his attempt at penance—for everyone. This was something he needed to do alone.

“And go where?” he questioned as he shoved his Deecee into the thigh-holster. 

She shrugged. “Night Watch is always lookin’ for new recruits- most of em’ these days are former Republic soldiers and clones lookin’ to leave the Empire.”

As he slotted his rifle over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the Captain out of the corner of his eye, watching him like a hawk with arms crossed and head cocked. He really wasn’t looking to be bodied by an overprotective cannonball anytime soon.

“Pass.”

“Well if you change your mind…” Trinn reached into one of the packs on her hip, pulled out a portable transmitter, and programmed it with her commpad. “Use this, and we’ll find you.”

Crosshair takes in a deep breath and lets out a weary sigh as he reaches to take the transmitter; when he wraps his hand around and tries to take it, she holds it firm until he makes eye contact.

“Whatever it is you're so ashamed of, you can have a fresh start. You just have to be brave enough to commit to it.”

Commitment was something he knew well enough, but only out of necessity for survival or success. It wasn't something he’d associated with free will or choice. If he hadn’t survived or succeeded, he’d have been long dead by now. Being brave enough to make a choice was a foreign concept that made sense the longer he thought about it, but was eerily uncomfortable.

A slap on the shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts and he flinched away from the bear hug that usually followed.

“Just think it over, doesn’t hurt t’have options.”

Crosshair pointed the transmitter in her direction and gave her stern look before pocketing it. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Trinn just grinned wider, flashed a little teeth and crinkled her eyes. “Sure it don’t.”

Crosshair carefully walked down the ramp and dropped onto the dusty ground, glanced around the landing platform to find the horizon and his bearings, then started in the direction of the giant hologram of Rampart’s stupid, smug face. The Administrative poster boy for chain codes should have never been allowed near Operations Command.

What a load.

Not far off the main road, he spotted a comm terminal and crammed inside, dialed the Imperial base code, followed by the directory code for Admiral Rampart, then input his identifying clearance code. 

He waited nearly half an hour before the bastard picked up.

“This is Admiral Rampart. To whom am I speaking?”

His name caught in his throat for a split-second before he corrected himself. “CT-9904.”

“CT-99- you’re alive?” he scoffed with a laugh. “I assumed you were dead.”

Cross clenched his jaw and suppressed a growl, lip curled and fist shaking around the receiver. He shouldn’t have been surprised in the least, but the way the rage flared inside him still burned from the inside out.

“Fortunately not.”

Rampart hummed, almost sounding disappointed. “I was told you’d lost control of the situation on Kamino. Care to explain exactly what happened?”

He hadn’t had time to think about how to spin the lie, but still managed with ease. “The rest of my team was killed by Clone Force 99.”

“And what of the rogue clones then?”

“Dead,” he lied without hesitation.

“So you finished the mission?” He hummed again in approval. “Good, yes. I assume then you’re expecting an extraction?”

“Preferably.” 

“And where might you be, exactly?”

Crosshair hesitated again, then replied, “Capital City, on Uyter.”

“Now how in blazes did you get there?”

“A passing freighter picked up my distress beacon and gave me a lift.” He didn’t need the whole truth.

“How fortunate,” he replied in a bored tone. “Lucky for you, there’s an Imperial depot outside of town. Find a way there, check in, and await further instructions.”

He blinked hard, head bobbing in surprise. “Sir?”

“You’d been listed as killed in action, it is going to take some time to reverse that paperwork. Not to mention, I don’t even know what to do with you, CT-9904. Your team is dead, the ES initiative has been scrapped, and I no longer have use for you. So for now, stay put and await further instruction.”

Crosshair knew what that meant. Either he was about to be decommissioned, stuck on some backwater hellhole, or be disposed of altogether. He’d heard rumors of what was happening to “retirees” of the Clone Wars- marked for death, or disappeared to classified destinations. This was exactly why he’d been trying so hard to avoid becoming redundant, or worse- obsolete.

But Hunter was right, Trinn was right. No matter how hard he tried, the Clones’ days with the Empire were numbered. Every day, more and more, he saw it, feared it, felt it: the imminent expiration of their purpose. 

They were never going to find security or purpose again unless they fought tooth and nail for it.

Reality sank heavy in his gut like permacrete, and he swallowed hard and replied with a stoic, “Yes sir,” then disconnected.

Shabuir, he hissed internally. He couldn’t go back to the Empire now, but he wasn’t exactly ready to ask his brothers or the Night Watch for help either.

But what option was there for a lone Clone deserter? He’d need credits, food and shelter, so first he’d need work. But Uyter was a farming planet, and he was no farmer. And he was too thin and malnourished for manual labor. No, the only skillset he had was his Black-Ops training. But how the hells was he going to translate that into a career path outside of the Empire?

Crosshair looked around at the market square outside the terminal, and realized for the first time in a long time, he was struggling to see the bigger picture. It had all been so clear just weeks ago, but now he could barely see the path in front of him. He really should have had more respect for his brothers’ commitment to staying away. 

And he should have gone with them.

Hey! Leave me alone… augh!

Down the lane, toward the end of the road, he saw a group of heavily armored men toss a Weequay into the street and laugh before they entered the business on the corner. He squinted to get a read on the business name and caught the tail end of the man’s whinging, something about, Damn Bounty Hunters, and huffed. 

He’d just been handed the answer to his problems on a silver platter. Bounty Hunting was the perfect translation of his skills into a civilian profession.

But without a ship he’d be severely limited, and with this damn trooper kit, he wouldn’t be taken seriously. And he still needed a bucket.

He glanced around again, this time searching the stalls and storefronts, catching glimpses of clothing laid out on clotheslines outside the homes above. He could sneak around and steal what he needed, then go hock most of his kit for credits. He’d keep the weapons and survival supplies, swap out his clothes… the plan was coming together quickly. Yes, this would work, all he’d have to do then was buy food and water.

With one final glance at the chain code message, he spat at the ground beneath it, turned down the nearest alley, and disappeared off the Empire’s radar.

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