Chapter Text
Omega hits the floor with a whack that rattles her bones.
'What a crappy landing,' Crosshair jeers, 'you offend me, I taught you better than that.'
She springs back up with a growl and launches herself at Cross, ignoring the calls and shouts from regs and natborns gathered around their training pad. They ought to be doing their own wrestling, but when the Empire's last two enhanced clones have at it, everyone stops to come and look. Most have learnt by now that gawking is safer than engaging, and it's rare for anyone to volunteer for a round.
Omega is fine with that. Landing Cross on his lanky ass is one of the finest pleasures to be had while on Kamino, and she's intent on being satisfied today.
She lunges, stabbing for his radial nerve to strip him of the use of his dominant arm. Cross grins and swats her hands aside, striking back open palmed. Omega jerks away with a hiss.
They keep up their scuffle, never quite reaching a pressure point, never managing a serious grab that could lead to a throw or a dislocation.
'Are you trying to tire me out?' Cross asks with an irritatingly pleasant smile. 'You know I decanted with the grey hair, right?'
'Keep talking old man,' Omega answers, throwing a kick and retreating as soon as she's deflected. 'Wind yourself out for me.'
'You've got a mouth like a natborn. You know I still beat your times in endurance.'
Omega snorts and follows her own advice, saving her voice for her grunting and cursing as her brother continues to dodge her and push her around the mat, leading her in a dance they both know by heart.
Someone shouts an insult, something about being an ungainly gundark, and Omega makes a mental note to be particularly brutal in her next training session with the regs. They can all eat it, since she can't tell who came up with that. He's not the only one thinking this is a bar brawl anyway. One that's been going on for too long.
Resigning herself to tricks, Omega slows down, fakes a misstep and stumble. Crosshair might be cunning, but he buys it every time. She snaps her head to the side to avoid the scary slap hurtling her way and snatches Cross' wrist. He swears, leans forward to try to get her off balance, but Omega moves along, falls to the ground and drags him with her.
The toss doesn't quite work though, and they're in a snarling heap when the excited hoots and howls are cut short. The wrestlers stop their struggle instantly, heads turning to the dojo's door, because really, what else can silence the whole room but a high ranking intruder?
Sure enough, it is none other than the skull-faced Grand Moff Tarkin himself, making his way through a row of nervous troopers to stop at the edge of the mat.
'Get yourselves in uniform,' he says, 'and come to my office straight away.'
He turns on his heels then and walks away, just like that.
'Wha—' But Cross clenches his fingers into Omega’s shoulder, silencing her.
'Let's go,' is all he says, offering her a hand up and taking off for the showers at a jog.
'I didn't know he was on Kamino.'
'Neither did I. Don't scrub behind your ears,' Cross warns her, grabbing a towel from the racks. 'If Tarkin came to fetch us in person—'
'It means it's big, I know. Could it be them?'
Cross shrugs, eyes clouded. 'It does no good to hope. Now go.'
Omega doesn't need to be told twice. The one thing she enjoys more than slamming Crosshair into a training mat is a hot shower. Like friendly wrestling, it's a pleasure restricted to Kamino, and a more recent and
most welcome
development.
Spacious ladies showers is the one thing Omega is actually grateful to natborns for. Before human women joined the ranks of troopers to be trained, Omega, single female Fett clone, had not been worth building a decent shower for. She'd sometimes washed in the fresher attached to Nala Se's office if she was working with her, but more often in one of the small medical sonics.
Natborn women had brought her hot water, steam, an unending bliss that relaxes the muscles and flushes the skin and makes sonics pass for torture devices.
Still, she heeds Crosshair's words and makes short work of her washing, going for the infamous "trooper shower". She's done in under five minutes, and yet Crosshair is already out in the changing rooms, toweling his short hair, his blacks soaked through in places he's not quite dried off.
Omega gives him a squinty-eyed look. 'There's no way you're actually clean.'
'Maybe one day you'll get good and beat me at something.'
Omega laughs and does not gratify the jab with an answer. The walk to Tarkin's office isn’t long enough for another debate on who beat who at what.
The door opens before them and they step into the quiet, understated room the Moff has made his own on Kamino. The dark walls are covered in holographic star charts and the desk's interface is rife with reports and flowing data.
No matter her feelings towards the man himself, Omega has to hand it to him: Tarkin never takes a break. He appears as married to his works as any trooper to their duty. And much like a clone trooper, he seems to age faster than he should. Each time she sees him his hair appears to have thinned, new spots grace his lined forehead, and his scowl has set in harder.
It's one of her own favourite jabs, actually.
Don't make a face like that, Cross
she'd say,
you'll get stuck and end up looking like Tarkin's little brother.
She glances at Cross to see if he's thought of it too, seeing Tarkin's lines of worry etched deeper than ever, but he is staring straight ahead, jaw clenched and expression studiously blank.
'No need to take a seat,' Tarkin says, rising from behind his desk and walking around it to face them. 'I'll be short and to the point. There's been a recent development, and I have need of your skills. Who else but the Empire's best and only enhanced clones to send after the rebellious ones?'
Omage gasps, a confused rush of emotion coursing through her. 'You've found them?'
Tarkin nods. 'We have tracked the members of the Bad Batch to a specific system and know their work there is on-going. However I find myself faced with a dilemma. Who should I send? They've escaped us long enough that I cannot report failure to the Emperor. Not this time. Should I send the best Death trooper commando you two have trained? Or you yourselves?' He turns his pale, watery eyes on Crosshair. 'I've never had to doubt Omega's loyalty, but you, Crosshair, have not been tested like this since the dissolution of your inhibitor chip. So answer me honestly. If I gave you those coordinates, would you go and kill the clones of the Bad Batch?'
Omega keeps her face straight and her breathing even, loath to betray any of her emotions. She can feel the way Cross tenses, hear his shuffling feet as he stands at attention next to her. A moment passes in tense silence, but when Cross speaks his voice is strained yet clear.
'I would rather not have to kill them, sir. But they're traitors and runaways. They once were my brothers, but I've spent just as long working with Omega here and even commander Elisord or the members of Unit Seven.' He clenches his fists, jerks his chin up. 'My loyalty has never wavered all these years sir, I'd appreciate the trust.'
Bold move, Omega thinks, but Tarkin's thin smile is appreciative.
'Very well.' He summons up a star chart with a wave of his hand. 'Your mission is to retrieve them alive, but given the choice between letting them go and killing them, shoot to kill. Failure to do so will greatly reflect on your professed loyalty.'
He motions for the map to zoom in, swallowing up the room until the Onderon system hovers between them.
'Onderon, really?' Omega asks, frowning.
'Yes,' Tarkin answers with a whiff of annoyance, 'Saw Gerrera was never quite eradicated from that planet. He and his insurgents always reappear like mushrooms after rain. We had Cad Bane commissioned on a job there when he reported their presence.'
Omega blinks at that. If they have Cad Bane on Onderon, why not ask him to take out the Bad Batch? Surely the bounty hunter would be delighted to be given the chance to add such a feat to his legend. Then Omega realises how costly a feat that would be, and here they are...
'You'll be going out with Unit Seven and Four. Commander Thrawn is in the area and could provide potential support, but his flagship is being refitted in the Ord Mantell deepdocks,' Tarkin goes on, 'I'll transfer you the mission details. You're leaving today.'