Chapter Text
Ord Mantell
Rot. 126, 00 I.A.
“What do you mean, ‘it’s all gone’?”
The question tears through the heavy silence between the four of them. Through cadence alone, Echo can tell it was Gregor, the Commando having a more distinct voice than most Regs. When Echo looks up, Gregor’s face is solemn, deepening the pit in his stomach. Gregor laughed and joked through his Imperial imprisonment, exiting his cell with swagger and a grin. Now, all that is gone. Gregor is staring at Hunter and him through the dim light of Cid’s bar, and there is nothing readable on his face.
“All of it,” the Sergeant says. “The whole city.”
Echo glances at Hunter. With the angle and a heavy shadow cast on his face, it’s impossible to decipher Hunter’s emotions. The tattoo doesn’t help either. But Echo knows it’s probably the same distant, blank expression he’s worn since they left Crosshair on that platform.
It’s been a day since Kamino, maybe only twelve hours, and all of them spent trying to get back to Ord Mantell. A day since Crosshair turned his back on them, again. A day since Echo watched the only home he’s ever known be completely obliterated, almost encasing him within its submerged halls. The last true remnants of the Republic, of the Clone Army, entombed forever at the bottom of an ocean. The plumes of smoke rising over the waters of Kamino are forever burned into his memory.
“Nearly took us with it,” Echo mumbles, mostly to himself.
Against the wall, Rex leans with his arms folded. Not much has changed on his face since learning of the fate of Kamino, besides the lines deepening on his forehead and mouth. Echo’s certain his fellow Regs share his sentiment. The fondness he felt for Kamino had nothing to do with the planet itself, but the memories it held. Memories of Fives and Domino. Of Ninety-Nine. ARC Training. It’s the closest thing they could call home.
“And Crosshair?” Rex probes.
Hunter answers into his Corellian whiskey. “He made his choice.”
And this time, they knew it was a choice. Their Sergeant thought — well, they all thought — that Crosshair could be reasoned with. Wrecker’s chip had activated, and they saved him, so their other brother could be saved as well. However, with Crosshair’s revelation that he’d had his chipped removed and still willfully followed the Empire…
The skin above Echo’s right elbow begins to crawl.
“Do you think he was lying?” Gregor directs the question to the ARC-Trooper. “Did he really remove his chip?”
“When would he have done it?” Rex poses.
Before Echo can answer, Hunter says, “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”
As the weight of his words settles heavily on them, Echo takes a sip of his drink, barely wincing as it scalds his throat. He’s right. Whether Crosshair removed his chip before Order 66, or only a week ago, he was of sound mind yesterday. He made his choice, and it was the Empire.
Again, an itch builds in Echo’s arm. He goes to relieve it, only to have his gloved nails rake across metal. The tingling in his elbow disappears once he glances down, seeing bone and flesh replaced with a durasteel joint. Strange, that hasn’t happened in a while.
Another question is burning in Rex. “What about the others? The ones stationed on Kamino, the Cadets?”
“Decommissioned,” the ARC says with a weak shrug.
“Where’d the Empire send them?” Rex presses, stepping forward.
Again, Hunter chimes in, “They were all evacuated. The place was a graveyard when they got there. Tech and Echo have been working to decrypt Imperial transmissions. The hope is that they've all been released from service, left to their own devices, but…” Hunter lets out a heavy sigh. “As of right now, we don’t really know where they are.”
The shaking in Echo’s hand helps distract him from the itch. He clenches his drink, trying to smolder the boiling rage threatening to overflow.
“What do we do now?” Gregor asks earnestly.
“What we’ve always done,” Rex says. “We fight.”
“How?” Echo’s tone comes off more terse than usual. “If you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly have a battalion at our disposal.”
Somehow, the lines on Rex’s forehead deepen.
“Even if we could fight, Rex,” Hunter challenges. “Even if we stood a chance, what are we fighting for? The Republic is gone. The Jedi are gone.” His voice wavers at the next one. “Crosshair is gone. And from what I see, the Galaxy couldn’t care less.”
Rex is steadfast. “How about the thousands — millions — of our brothers that are walking around with kriffing chips in their heads?”
Echo’s never heard the Commander curse before. Off the battlefield, at least. It does little to quell the ARC’s frustration. “You think we can de-chip the entire Clone Army?”
“Of course not. But, if even one—”
“— Would they even want to be saved?” Hunter interjects.
“You don’t get it.” Rex’s folded arms drop, letting his fists clench at his sides. “I was still in there. When it — when the order came through, I couldn’t do anything to stop it, but I was still there. Trapped inside my own head. I knew what I was doing, and part of me wanted to, but another part didn’t. I couldn’t stop it.” Rex’s voice gets soft. A wetness builds up in his brother’s eyes. “It… It was a nightmare.”
A cold feeling creeps up Echo’s spine. Again, he feels the itch burning on his right arm, more intense than before, along with the ports, long sealed on his skull.
He knows better than most about being trapped in your own mind.
“We save a few,” Gregor poses. The Commando’s looking small in his seat. “Hell, we save a thousand, then what?”
Silence falls between them all. Still, his Captain stands, forever unshakable in his drive and conviction. Had Echo heard these words weeks ago, he would’ve stood by him. But now…
“I don’t know,” Rex says weakly.
It’s taken him a while to see it, but now he does. They lost the fight a long time ago. Before the War even started. The moment they were grown in that Sith-cursed lab, the Republic, the Jedi’s fate was sealed. Without the GAR, without the Jedi, they’re just womp rats in the clutches of a summa-verminoth.
There’s no fighting the Empire. Only survival.
The Interceptor
Rot. 129, 00 A.E.
Four days.
It took the Empire four days to retrieve Crosshair from that platform. Four days he waited, surrounded by nothing but the ocean of Kamino. The smoke from Tipoca City burned all through the night and into the morning. It still burned as the Imperial scouts searched the floating debris, finding the altered Clone. Another hour and Crosshair was on a shuttle.
Stiff nods and emotionless words from conscripts are all he receives as celebration, if that. No one cheers for his survival. No one claps him on the back or roughs him up with an embrace. Hell, no one even checks for injuries. His ability to walk is all they need, and CT-9904 is sent straight to a debriefing, where he fumbles his way through an exaggerated account of what happened in Tipoca City. Sure, his actions would be seen as treachery, but they had been for the benefit of the Empire.
He just hopes Rampart will see it that way.
The Admiral stands in front of him, across the metal table during the debrief. More likely, an interrogation. All his years with the Republic, he never got debriefed in an interrogation cell. However, no one has called it one, and Crosshair’s not sure that’s a good sign.
“And the rest of Clone Force 99?” Rampart inquires.
A good soldier would tell the truth. Deceiving one’s superior is dishonorable. Sure, before he just withheld portions of his story, which isn’t the same as flat-out lying. However, Crosshair doesn’t even hesitate, and his voice is steady when he says, “Dead. Most likely.”
Rampart doesn’t flinch.
“After the bombardment, the city went into a security override,” Crosshair discloses. “Corridors and hallways were blocked off. Me and the girl got separated from the rest. The room was flooding. I heard pounding on the door." Even a fictitious story of his brothers' demise is enough to send a shiver up his spine. "I don't know if they made it out, but if they did, it was a damn miracle.”
“And what of the fifth enhanced clone, code name Omega?”
Crosshair blinks. “Escape pod ruptured. I couldn’t get it open. Kid drowned.”
Behind Rampart, a few conscripts exchange glances.
“Hm. This is distressing,” Rampart says, though his tone says anything but. “You are dismissed, while we review your statements. Your position within the Empire has been called into question, and while Tarkin advocates for you, I would not get too comfortable, CT-9904.”
“Sir, yes Sir,” Crosshair hisses.
Crosshair is released from the Med Bay after only six hours. Hydration packs are all he needs, according to them. His berth is isolated, even for his standards. A single room, from the conscripts' bunks. Though he’s certain his seclusion is out of suspicion and not reward, he should relish in the privacy. After all, he’d craved nothing but while on Kamino.
But now, he despises it.
The walls are sterile, the bunk too stiff. The lights hum too loudly. The smell is too clean. It’s all perfect and wrong at the same time.
One by one, Crosshair strips off a piece of his armor, tossing it aside without a care. He can hear the Reg yapping in his mind about armor maintenance or some krayt spit like that. Then Tech would respond with some statistics about how the “maintenance regulations only improve sustainability by blah, blah, blah”. Then, Wrecker would make some large, grand gesture and disregard the rules even more than himself. All the while, Hunter would smirk and roll his eyes.
It absolutely shatters his heart.
They made their choice, he reminds himself. They chose to leave me. Again.
It should make him angry. It should send his fist straight into the wall. Make his voice scream out in fury. Make him destroy everything and everyone around him, because his brothers abandoned him.
But, he doesn’t. He just sits there, leaning on his knees, staring at the empty room and the blank wall. Though his stomach aches and his throat is parched, Crosshair can’t bring himself to go to the mess. He’s exhausted, but won’t get a moment of sleep. One truth just keeps blaring in his mind.
He’s completely and thoroughly alone.
Sleep is difficult, but at some point, Crosshair must’ve lost himself to it. A beep heralds the arrival of someone at his berth, and he picks himself up from the bunk. Stiff muscles and a throbbing head make it difficult to stay up. With a whoosh, the door opens.
A Clone clad in black armor marches his way into the berth. It has to be a Clone. There’s a difference between the stances of a Clone and a conscript, one that Crosshair can see from a mile away, and he stands at attention, instinct more than respect.
“CT-9904,” they say.
“Unfortunately, Sir,” Crosshair responds.
The Clone stares him down through a red-tinted visor. The helmet is removed, revealing a standard haircut and a jarring scar bisecting his cybernetic right eye.
“We haven’t had the pleasure,” the Clone says. “Commander Wolffe.”
The Reg reaches out his hand, but Crosshair ignores it.
“They’re still keeping Regs around?” the Sniper hisses.
“Some of us aren’t eager to leave the fight.” The Commander looks down. “To be honest, Crosshair, I’ve been wanting to have this discussion sooner. Marshall Commander Cody spoke highly of your skills, however, Admiral Rampart assured me that you are where you’re needed.”
The Sniper narrows his eyes. Doesn’t sound at all like Rampart, who not hours before, would’ve tossed him aside like crumbled flimsi.
“However, our division could really use someone with your skillset.”
“What division?” Crosshair asks. Now, he’s fully taking in Commander Wolffe’s armor. The black kama across his waist, the red armband on his left bicep, the shoulder plate above it. He’s not at all familiar with the style or markings.
“They’re still out there, Crosshair,” Wolffe says bitterly. “Those kriffing traitors. They’re still a threat to the Emperor. As we speak, they’re regrouping. Growing their numbers. We need to stomp them out before they tear down everything we’ve been building.”
Crosshair feels the hairs on his neck stand up. “Who?”
Venom soaks his tone. “Jedi.”
