#tbb:t

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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Worldbuilding

She was taken aback by the heat in his assumption, but he wasn’t wrong to be skeptical of their intentions. The Night Watch was about as friendly to the Empire as the Republic had been to the Confederacy during the Clone Wars, and it was unheard of for Mandalorians to offer help to their enemies.

“We heard comm chatter about Tipoca’s destruction, so when we saw where your beacon was comin’ from, we didn’t really think twice. The clones helped us once, and we wanted to return the favor.”

He was almost inclined to believe her. These do-gooder rebels were known to have taken in clone deserters and sympathetic parties. If they weren’t looking for a hostage, they were probably hoping to convert one more disillusioned soldier to their cause, the irony of which wasn’t lost on him. They would have had better luck recruiting Clone Force 99 into their ranks, had they come across his brothers rather than him. Swearing allegiance to the Night Watch would have been an easy transition for men in their position- aside from fulfilling their need to ‘do the right thing’, they’d have the security of the clan to protect Omega, stable sources of food and work, and clarity of purpose-

All of which he could have provided, had they just returned to the Empire.

The Empire that had just destroyed their home? The Empire that turned their noses up at the very soldiers who had single-handedly eradicated the Jedi and seized control of the entire Galaxy with one order? The Empire that had made it very clear that the future of their service, their very survival, was not guaranteed…?

Why in the nine hells had he chosen this over his family? For purpose, for stability, for influence ? Fat lot of good that had done him.

Crosshair grimaced, reached up and pressed the heel of his hand into the piercing headache as it shot through his temporal lobe. He hadn’t had a single independent thought that went unpunished, nor a moment of painless clarity, since his chip had activated. 

“... hey- you okay?”

“Do I look okay ?”

He caught the way her face lit up in recognition out of the corner of his eye but didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need her sympathy—it wouldn’t have helped him anyway—and he didn’t want her empathy. 

A deeper feminine voice boomed from inside the cargo hold, beckoning Trinn to get inside and close the hatch so they could leave. After gesturing back to them to ‘Give me a minute’, she turned her attention back to him and tried again.

“Look- I can only imagine the week you’ve had, but I’d hope you’d still have enough sense t’not look a gift-fathier in the mouth.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied before he could change his mind. Leaving now—after all that time spent gaining ground with Rampart—would be a waste, and he wasn’t about to concede.

“You sure? Maker knows when your next chance will be. Do you really want to sit here for another…” Her voice trailed off and she rolled a shrug to illustrate.

Fierfek , she was right. Not even pirates or scrappers would have bothered withstanding Kamino’s hazards for the promise of a mediocre payday. Crosshair’s throat bobbed at the thought of being stuck on Kamino any longer. Due to his accelerated metabolism, he was already running dangerously low on rations, despite his best efforts to make them last. He could stretch them maybe another week if he bit off just enough to keep himself from starving to death, but he could already feel the weakness creeping into his bones. He was losing muscle density, ketosis was setting in. At this rate, it was either stay and risk an unpleasant death, or leave and possibly be taken prisoner. Had he been at full strength, he had no doubt he would be able to fight back in the case of the latter, but the number of soldiers aboard the craft was an unknown variable. 

And who knew if the Empire would really be back.

His voice cracked as he forced the question. “You’ll take me to the closest starport, no strings attached…?”

“So long as you don’t rat us out.”

The lines in his forehead crinkled, arms dropped and balled his fingers into fists at his sides. He’d have plenty of time to rehearse the conversation with Admiral Rampart about how he had gotten his team killed and survived an orbital bombardment on a city that was now completely underwater. Lying about Clone Force 99’s survival wasn’t an issue, but crawling back empty-handed yet again wouldn’t earn him any favor. At the rate his failures were piling up, he’d be lucky to get an early retirement.

Don’t fool yourself- all you'll ever be to them is a number.

Trinn’s boots scraped as they shifted against the durasteel and turned away. “Fine, I’ll just tell my pilot to turn around-”

“ No ,” he finally conceded with a low, snarling growl. If the objective was survival, the strategy was obvious: control what you can. Even if he ended up in a cell, he’d have food and shelter. His odds of survival were better if he took the gamble of leaving with sympathetic enemies. 

So long as he gave them no reason to distrust him, and nothing to work with. 

Vertigo hit him as he lunged onto the swaying ship. One leg staggered and buckled, and he hit the deck hard as Trinn reacted and reached for his forearm. It slipped out of her grasp until her hand caught at the neck of his wrist and tightly gripped the plating over his hand. His body lurched with all of his weight pulling at his shoulder socket, and whipped his head around to bring him face-to-face with the Kaminoan deep. Sickness rose in his gut as the swell crashed beneath him, and just as he started to black out, he was yanked back into the safety of the cluttered cargo hold with incredible ease. Crosshair groaned as he hit the ground and pressed his fingers into his eyes, writhing on the vibrating floor beneath him.

Another heavier pair of boots approached him from across the room and came to a stop inches from his face, and he looked up into the face of a behemoth of a Mandalorian woman—as thick as he was tall, yet dwarfed him in presence alone—staring down at him with a steely blue, unyielding gaze. Impervious didn’t even begin to describe her.

“Weapons off, Comms and beacons out the ship,” she demanded with a curt nod over his shoulder.

Crosshair sat back on his heels. “Is that really necessary ?”

“Not dealing with you reneging on our agreement, or having your Imperial friends tag us mid-flight.”

He couldn’t fault them for being thorough, but he still hesitated and grimaced in protest as he pushed himself to his feet. He reached for the backup deecee pistol first, then Hunter’s knife which he’d tucked into the plate over his calf, and set them down on the fold-out lockup bench to the left of him. As he reached for his Firepuncher, he leaned forward to give it enough room to swing over his head without hitting the bulkhead, and set it down next to the others with a more reverent touch. 

“Commpad and distress beacon.”

Crosshair grit his teeth and held her gaze with a curled upper lip, unclipped the comm-pad from his vambrace and thrust it out the ship behind him into the raging sea. “Beacon’s wired to the power in my kit.”

“I’ll handle it.” Trinn stepped up behind him and unseated the pack from the mag-plate in his cuirass, then motioned him forward and raised the loading ramp as the muscly woman reached for the vibro-blade and let out a low whistle of approval. 

“I want that back,” he muttered under his breath as he pushed past her into the staging area of the cargo bay and smothered the urge to share that it held sentimental value.

The redhead gripped the hilt and flipped it around and over between her fingers with practiced ease, testing the balance with marveled interest. “Who wouldn’t ?” 

Trinn set his pack down at the workbench against the wall to the right and raised her commpad to signal to their pilot. 

“Sentry-one, we’re clear.”

“ Copy .”

The miniscule shift of directional force as the ship departed the platform disrupted his equilibrium mid-step. One hand instinctively reached for the bulkhead handrail but he instead caught himself on the cargo webbing strung along the walls. His shaky legs wobbled as he pulled himself over onto the bench in the corner beside the interrior blast doors and dropped with all of his weight onto the bare durasteel. Crosshair’s tired eyes fell shut as he drew in a deep breath and released it with a relieved grunt. Circumstances aside, this was already infinitely better than sitting on that platform in the rain.

The female officer folded the bench containing all of his weapons into the wall and secured it for hyperspace, then cast him a skeptical glance before she passed through the doors. Her heavy footsteps receded deeper into the ship until the vibration could be heard no more, and she greeted someone with a curt “ Commander .” 

“ Captain ,” an androgynous voice replied, equally as curt. “ Report .”

“ Found one Imperial, right where they said he’d be. ”

They…? Someone had sent them here for him…? The only people that even knew he was still alive was Clone Force 99, who—as far as he knew—had no affiliation with the Night Watch. If they had friends like that, they wouldn’t have been scurrying from job to job like rats. So who would they have told…? Rebels? The clone underground made the most sense. So they did have contacts somewhere out there looking out for them. 

And he did as well, it seemed. Despite leaving him behind, his brothers hadn’t given up on him after all. They were still giving him chances he didn’t deserve. 

“ So he’s not a clone? ”

“ Doesn’t look like any clone I’ve ever seen… ”

“ Then why are we taking him with us? ”

“ We’re already here, the chakaar looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. You really gonna leave him here to die? ”

“ He’s an Imperial , we gain nothing by helping him, bringin’ him on board the ship is a huge security risk to us. ”

“ Trinn’s disabling his beacon, he has no comms. We’ll be fine. ”

Trinn kicked at the toe of his boot to get his attention and snapped him out of his focus.

“Plates off.”

“Buy me dinner first,” he sneered back without looking up. 

She puffed out a low chuckle. “Savin’ your sorry shebs wasn’t enough?”

“I know what I’m worth.”

“C’mon,” she persisted, dropping his pack next to him on the floor. “You wanna stay on the ship? I need to disable that beacon. Then you can sleep as long as you want.”

Crosshair grimaced and turned away from her in protest. His entire life, his plates had been the only thing between him and an untimely death. It didn’t feel right being out of them, much less in the presence of his enemies. 

“What’s the matter, you shy?”

“Forgive me for not trusting that you won’t shoot me in the back the moment I do.”

“We could still shove you out the airlock at any time.”

He stiffened and bristled instinctively before realizing it was a joke. She was joking with him.

“I’ll give you a minute to yourself,” she said as she double-checked that the weapon stores were locked up tight on her way to the door, then turned on heel and pointed back his way. “But don’t try anything, or you’ll have my sister t’answer to.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes and gave her a sarcastic two-fingered salute as the door shut behind her before reaching up to unclip his breastplate. He’d lost track of the conversation between the Captain and Commander once Trinn interrupted him, but without the distraction he could hear them again clear as day.

“ I don’t get why they’d send us out here for one stormtrooper. ”

“ Well, maybe we’ve got it wrong. Maybe he is a clone. ”

“ Oh, for sure he is., ” Trinn proclaimed without hesitation, drawing a snort from the Captain.

“ What makes you so sure? ”

“ Well, for one thing- I don’t think a teekay trooper would have survived that mess on their own.”

Crosshair set his chestplate down on the floor and almost laughed at the thought. The TK’s had been trained by Clone Commandos for infantry combat and security. They hadn’t undergone the rigorous survival training that had killed many clones before they had even deployed. 

“They’re not exactly bright, I’ll give you that.”

“ Exactly, and this one’s too smart- gehatyc, ramikadyc.”

“A Commando? You think so?”

“Yeah, they all have the look in their eye- resentment, guilt, instant distrust of anyone that ain’t a brother... ”

“Could be the shell-shock.”

“Or, it’s ‘cause he’s still chipped.”

“And you left him alone!?”

“Relax, Reina. Mal can handle him.”

He wasn’t the only one that was smart. Trinn was observant ( too observant for his liking ), the Captain was cautious. If he’d learned anything about Mandalorians from Skirata and Vau, it’s that they were not to be underestimated. Each was a Commando by their own right, their entire culture had evolved around survival. Mandalore’s heritage had made the Clone army, without their training he and his brothers would have been long dead. 

And this crew was well-trained. If the rest of the Night Watch was half as competent—and he was certain they were—it was no wonder they were giving the Empire a run for their credits. Though their rebellion against the Imperial occupation of Mandalore had just begun, their notoriety had already spread to the farthest reaches of the Galaxy, inspiring other Separatist-allied planets like Raxus to follow suit. 

It was dangerous for him to linger for too long.

“We should have Noei take a look at him.”

“No way. We’re not taking a chipped Commando back to base.”

“Just drop me off at the nearest starport and I’ll find my way,” he cut in from the doorway behind them. 

All three heads snapped around in unison. Trinn’s hand flexed over the blaster on her thigh, Captain Mal braced herself for a fight, the Pilot fixed an intense gaze on him from behind their goggles. His vision blurred, he swayed on his feet. For a brief moment of confusion, in the dimly lit hallway, he saw the faces of his brothers staring back at him in cautious apprehension…

Then Trinn straightened up and shoved Mal back onto her heels with a muttered udesii as she passed. Their pilot-Commander exchanged a glance with Captain Mal, grunted and finally ceded.

“We’ll drop you off at Capital City on Uyter. It’s about a day’s flight out, but you shouldn’t have a problem gettin’ in touch with your friends there.”

“Works for me.”

Trinn motioned him back into the cargo bay, stooped to pick up his armor as he carefully lowered himself back onto the bench, then sat down at the workbench and popped open the backing that protected the circuitry. The distress beacon in his kit exhaled a low, digitized squeal as it powered down minutes later. He was truly on his own now, no one else was coming for him.

And yet, part of him couldn’t help but feel like he should be making better use of the situation he’d found himself in. 

“I knew you’d change your mind,” Trinn offered in the silence that followed.

“You did, did you…?” Stars, this one was as irritating as she was cute. He was starting to wish he was alone again. The sooner the better.

Crosshair sank down into his seat until he was laying flat on the bench with his legs stretched out long, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see her face, but the silence was telling.

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Worldbuilding

After the accident on Bracca during his recovery, Nala Se diagnosed that his inhibitor chip had been damaged beyond repair by the radiation from the ion engine, and allegedly removed before it could cause irreparable harm to his cognitive function. Based on the report from an isolated instance where another clone’s malfunctioning chip had degraded and left him in a catatonic state, he had no reason to doubt the validity of her claim, but the way her pupils contracted when she relayed the information told him she wasn’t being entirely forthright.

Crosshair never had been the introspective type, but once he suspected she was lying, suspicion turned to paranoia overnight. Every thought he scrutinized against every action, searching for inconsistencies in his conduct, until he found traces of warped words. Despite the reclaimed autonomy and the Kaminoan’s thinly-veiled lie about his inhibitor chip being removed, it just wasn’t adding up. He knew himself well enough to know that something was still influencing his behavior, like the day he lost himself on Kaller. 

The memory of Order 66, and how violently the inhibitor chip had wrestled for control over his conscious mind, was still a gaping wound on his psyche not easily ignored. It had devoured his free will like a bad fever dream and imprisoned him within his waking mind while an imposter puppeteered actions that weren’t his own. Communicating with anyone was like processing language through a filter that dictated what he could or could not say, and spit out predetermined responses when his thoughts conflicted with orders. He didn’t even recognize himself when he spoke.

Cross remembered the duality of expressing displeasure at Hunter for disobeying orders while asking himself over and over why it mattered so karking much. He’d never questioned the Sergeant’s judgment before, he’d always followed his lead even if it was contrary to Command, because they were above regulation and reported to no one. If something about the assignment didn’t smell right, they had the authority to change the mission parameters or investigate and pursue methods that would produce more favorable results. Never in his life had he given a damn about protocol or insubordination, so for him to suddenly start questioning every decision he made with the insistence that ‘Good soldiers follow Orders’…? 

The way the mantra defensively snapped out of him like an arc flash when he tried to voice his approval made his skin crawl, and it had only gotten worse after the Kaminoans enhanced his inhibitor chip.

How he’d remained lucid enough to consciously fight back while fully under its control was a matter of sheer willpower and spite for being robbed of his autonomy, one of the only things a clone could truly consider their own. He’d learned the hard way when he resisted the initial enhancement of the chip, that it was too exhausting to spend the mental energy thwarting every programmed impulse. The harder he struggled against the chip’s influence, the more it hurt, and the more it hurt, the more draining it was on his resolve to resist. 

By the time he’d armed himself in the Empire’s digs and confronted his brothers, he was too enervated to stop himself from turning his weapon against them. Cross watched with trepidation as Wrecker —the strongest among them— crumpled to the ground, helmet rolling across the floor, and felt the ire and distress evaporate into a deeply unsettling state of impassive restraint. It was clear if he was going to beat the chip, he’d need a better strategy.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out its game, but learning how to work around it was the tricky part. Holding onto his motivation in the form of riotous fury helped him to bide his time and pick his battles more tactically, which meant letting Imperial Slave Crosshair follow orders when it didn’t involve his brothers, no matter how heinous his crimes. 

He bridled his tongue as he killed one of his own men and ordered his team to terminate civilians. He’d allowed himself to rat out his brothers’ location and accept the kill order on Bracca. He’d listened as he spun his tale of deception over comms he knew Tech was listening in on and led them into a trap, and beamed with pride when his brothers thwarted his best-laid plans-

But when he saw Tech and Hunter on the other end of his scope, Crosshair lashed out against the inhibitor chip’s control and unleashed every ounce of reserved strength he had, to make sure he botched his shot and hesitated on the follow-up. It was all he could really do to ensure they’d live to escape the hunt. There was no doubt in his mind that they’d outwit and survive whatever came next, but even in his wildest expectations, Crosshair couldn’t have predicted the spectacular disaster that followed the ignition of the ion engines.

As the thermal-plated cone crashed to the ground, he stared into the exhaust and breathed a sigh of relief for a brief moment before he was knocked off his feet. Ironically, in spite of the severe burns he’d suffered, the accident had done him more good than harm. Helping them survive in-turn helped him regain some semblance of control over himself by damaging his inhibitor chip, and though branded by an unsightly scar, he proudly bore it as a tangible reminder of his successful rebellion. Because Empire and overclocked inhibitor chip be damned, he’d saved what was important to him under the worst of circumstances. How many could say that of their fortitude?

Although most of his actions on Ryloth had been deliberate to alleviate Admiral Rampart’s growing doubt that he was still loyal, there were moments where what he said or did didn’t match up to what he’d had in mind. Between that and the occasional splitting headaches following breakthrough moments of vivid clarity, he could tell he was still fighting the chip’s influence. Why else would he be so ready to give up on his family to serve an Empire that made him work so hard to prove his worth when it was so well-documented? For stability? For purpose? He didn’t remember caring for any of that before, but then again he’d never had to consider what hardships lay ahead of a defector.

He could only imagine Clone Force 99’s struggle since leaving the security of active duty. Without a direct line to the Republic or the Empire for rations, supplies, fuel, and spare parts, they’d have been running on fumes after a dozen rotations. Factor in having to conceal their identities, scavenge for work, and ditch the bounty hunters on their tail that were after Omega… none of it added up to a pretty life on the run, especially not for the kid. But, at the very least, they still had each other and they had their loyalties, which was more than he could say of the spineless shebbies on his squad. And after seeing how the Empire truly operated, he couldn’t really blame them for choosing to leave, even if the chip in his head cried otherwise.

When they’d brought Hunter back from Daro, he tried explaining that to him the only way he knew he could: through out-of-character displays of carefully coded self-awareness and emotional expression. Working within the lines of ‘things he’d never say’ and ‘things that wouldn’t be considered the chip’s influence’ was critical to conveying his hidden meaning, and he spoke in sober, downtrodden tones. Crosshair was flat-out tired of fighting- his chip, his brothers, the Empire… one way or another, he needed it to end, and he could only hope Hunter would be smart enough to decode the message behind the chip’s censoring.

They don’t leave their own behind… most of the time.

You tried to kill us. We didn’t have a choice.

Hmm… and I did?

It was just so damn hard to get anything through that di’kut’s thick skull sometimes. For being the one with enhanced senses, he had a lot of trouble sensing when something was amiss, but at least that time he seemed to be looking for it.

It’s that inhibitor chip in your head.

No shit, you karking bantha-brained nerfherder, he’d snapped back sarcastically, though it didn’t make it past the filter before it was time to move. 

Crosshair had meticulously planned every last detail of the confrontation right down to the placement of each soldier and reflective disc in the room. Telling them they wouldn’t need their weapons was an assurance rather than a statement, because he’d never intended to hurt them or let them be hurt by his squad.

So this was your grand plan…? Bring us here and kill us?

He softly winced as the fear that he may not succeed at getting through to them shook the foundation of his resolve, and the chip’s programming seeped through the cracks.

If I wanted you dead you would be, not that it wouldn’t be justified. You betrayed everything we stood for- and for what? The Republic?

We’re loyal to each other, not some Empire.

You weren’t loyal, to ME.

The words growled out with overwhelming urgency and snatched the Sergeant by the throat. He was one of them once- and in all his time spent with the Empire among soldiers and commanding officers who questioned him at every turn, he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of true camaraderie. Every time he’d returned to their sterilized barracks, he’d been made devastatingly aware of how badly he wanted to be back with the people he trusted most and who trusted him in return to have their backs. All he’d wanted was the opportunity to talk to them, to give them what they hadn’t given him: the chance to choose him, to help free him, because he could not free himself. Not without their help. 

Sir, I’ve found the girl.

He’d almost forgotten about Omega.

Crosshair hadn’t spent enough time with the kid to form an attachment, but neither did he want her to fall into the Empire’s hands. When his brothers were clueless to his struggle with his inhibitor chip, she had shown him compassion and understanding, something he had never known he needed or wanted until it was offered. If there was one thing both he and the chip agreed on, it was protecting her at all costs. 

Send her on a shuttle off-world.

Crosshair- DON’T.

It’s for her own good, and yours.

Omega belongs with US.

He understood his attachment well enough, but he couldn’t agree with that sentiment. Omega deserved stability, which wasn’t something they’d ever be able to afford her, Empire or no. She wasn’t a soldier, she was a child- the further away from them she was, the safer she’d be.

Living among fugitives where she’s in constant danger? You want to protect the kid, then let her go! Stop pretending to be something you’re not, Hunter. We’re not like the Regs… we never have been. 

For a moment his thoughts drifted to Cut Lawquane and his family, and he wondered if Hunter had considered domestic life, if he even had a plan at all. It would have been more suitable for a child than Mercenary work, but it wasn’t something they’d ever be able to settle into and stick with. The itch to fight would always draw them back into the heart of conflict one day.

We’re superior. The Empire can’t protect the Galaxy without strength.

It wasn’t a lie, but he wasn’t so naive as to believe that the Empire wanted to protect the Galaxy, after seeing how Ryloth had reacted to their occupation. What they were doing was wrong, and he knew it, but… 

This is what we were made for. Think of all we could do, together. We were brothers once, we can be again.

For a brief moment when he cut him loose, Crosshair saw a familiar flicker of recognition flash behind Hunter’s eyes as he listened to his words and analyzed the mismatched expressions on his face. He was so close to understanding, Cross almost lost his composure. It was right there, screaming in his face. 

Please just see it.

Why should we trust you…?

Crosshair grit his teeth as he gave the order for his ES Troopers to stand down, but when they refused, he took them out with a single premeditated shot, leaving himself in a position of four-on-one with men he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to overpower on his own. It had only been a contingency plan in the event that he had to choose between his squad and his blood, but he wanted his loyalties to be clear. He was desperate to regain their trust, and if that wasn’t enough to convince them of his intentions, he wasn’t sure what would be.

Does that answer your question?

The look of alarm that painted Hunter’s face as Cross stepped toward him wasn’t promising, nor was the silence that followed. Killing his entire squad probably hadn’t been the best way to demonstrate his alignment, but he was out of options and short on precious time.

You are all meant for more than drifting through the galaxy, it’s time to stop running. Join the Empire, and you will have purpose again.

The stress had loosened his control over the chip. If that hadn’t sounded like a conscripted recruitment advert straight from the Admiral’s mouth, his follow-up didn’t help.

Don’t make the same mistake twice. Don’t become my enemy.

It was meant more as a plea than a threat. Hunter would have known how furiously he was trying to choose family over duty if he’d just paid attention to the anguish in his tone. If they left again he wouldn’t be able to protect them, from himself or from the Empire.

Crosshair was surprised when Hunter jumped him first, and he fought back expecting the worst; but after several failed attempts to get the upper hand and one hard toss that slammed him into the ground, he looked up and realized he was trying to save his life.

He fell back into sync with the squad as if they’d never left, and for a few minutes, it felt like old times: Wrecker leading the charge, Echo and Tech watching his flanks, and Crosshair and Hunter watching their backs. He’d saved Hunter’s life twice already that day, and again two times more throughout the short-lived fight, but when the last droid fell and that splitting headache screamed at him to take back control, they still turned their guns on him. 

They had to be kidding, he thought. There was just no way that after everything, they still couldn’t see what was right in front of them, written all over his face, holding his rifle close to his chest.

But there he was, blaster raised and lip curled, still trying to convince him of what he already knew. 

Crosshair… forget the Empire! This isn’t you… it’s your inhibitor chip. We can help you.

Just what did he think he’d been doing all this time? Why did he think he’d lured them all to Kamino, murdered his squad, and saved their lives? Because he wanted them to join the Empire? Was that what they really wanted to believe…? And if they knew he was under the chip’s control, how did they expect him to accept their help? How was he supposed to even ask?

Crosshair’s resolve calcified as he realized he’d been chasing his tail for a pipe dream long dead, and that unless he could address his struggle directly they’d never see the nuance. Having his efforts to rebel thrown back in his face as if he hadn’t even tried to resist the chip fractured the foundation of his motivation with every passing denial, until it could no longer suffer the weight of his transgressions in the name of defiance.

It had been too easy to give in to the chip’s impulses then and let them think it had all been his decision, just to put an end to the way they looked at him with patronizing pity, but he was just so karking tired- of fighting the chip, of trying to fix what had broken... He’d always been the trenchant mir’sheb, after all, what was one last jump to become the monster they saw?

Wrong, he’d lied, as naturally as he breathed, I had my chip removed… a long time ago.

Pushing them away before they could reject him again was a last-ditch effort at self-preservation, however toxic the habit. Hunter’s anger was palpable, and Cross saw the way Tech glared at him from behind his goggles, but the lie had left him feeling too numb to be bothered.

… Since when?

Does it matter?

YES.

This is who I am.

Part of him had hoped they’d leave him to die in that training room, but when he awoke to Omega trying desperately to save his life, moments from drowning, he realized how stupid it would have been to let himself go out like that after everything. Perhaps all he’d needed was a nap, a hard fall, and one person risking their life to prove his meant something to them to knock some sense into him, but when Hunter confessed they weren’t going to leave him behind ‘again’, regret began to gnarl in his gut.

Like the stubborn di’kut he was, however, instead of thanking him in his own way, he’d doubled down hard on the condescension, picking and poking until one by one, each one of them gave up on saving him from himself. But when even Omega —despite being the only one who still had faith that he’d overcome the chip’s influence— finally admitted that she had been wrong about him, he knew he’d made a mistake. She had been his beacon of hope since the beginning of this waking nightmare, and her rejection was easily the most emotionally devastating blow he’d suffered all day. 

But, it also made him desperate enough to wrestle back full control over his chip, because if that was the last she ever saw of him, it wasn’t how he wanted her to remember him. 

He still cared for his former squad, his aliit, and their survival had and always would be his top priority. So despite his reservations about intentionally destroying the one room keeping them alive, he’d chimed in to help solve the problem of navigating the debris field. 

The droid- he can do it.

And do it he did, even to the detriment of his continued functionality. He wouldn’t have spared a second thought to his loss had Omega not recklessly opened her tube and gone after him, but when Hunter started to panic and Crosshair saw her sinking beneath the murk, he took the only shot at her he ever would, without a second thought.

And hit his mark.

He’d looked up as Hunter hoisted them both into the tube to find four guns staring back at him, and at that moment he lost all hope for reconciliation. 

That was the reason why he couldn’t bring himself to go with them in the end. Not just because the inhibitor chip wouldn’t allow him to consciously make the decision to leave or tell them he wanted help getting rid of it, but because the scorn in their eyes expressed that they’d never be able to trust him again. That ship had jumped when he lied about his inhibitor chip. As much as it hurt to let them go —especially after Omega had said her piece— he had to let it be. 

So he did. 

And there he was- helpless and alone, with the storms closing in, and no shelter to welcome him home.

A deep sigh emptied his lungs as he sat down, sank over his knees and leaned his chest against his thighs. To hell with all this emotional bantha fodder, he sneered as another headache split his skull in two. If he was going to die that day, it would have been easier if they’d just left him in the training grounds.

The boom of a starship breaking the atmosphere drew his attention as it cracked above him, and Crosshair’s golden-eyed gaze turned up to see a modified Darvro-class light freighter headed straight for him. FINALLY, someone had picked up his distress call, even if it wasn’t the Empire. A ride was a ride, and all he wanted at the moment was to leave Kamino and never look back.

He picked himself up off the ground and wobbled on his feet, hoisted the pack up onto his back, then slotted his rifle into the nook behind his shoulder. By the time he’d collected himself, the ship had come around and hovered near the edge of the platform with its cargo ramp open and one raven-haired Night Watch soldier flashing him a grin as she hung from one of the loading ramp support pistons. 

“Hey there, Trooper…!” her voice cracked over the roar of the engine. “Need a lift?”

Worldbuilding