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“This is a bloody farce,” Crosshair grumbles, straightening his tie in the scuffed-up mirror of the Marauder’s refresher.
Looking over at the comically stiff way Wrecker is holding himself, dressed to the nines in the cargo hold—you can’t help but silently agree.
Since Crosshair rejoined his brothers’ ranks and began fighting for the rebel cause, it’s become harder than ever to disguise the footprints your crew leaves behind in the fight against the Empire—to all parties.
Five rogue “defective” clones, a young girl, and the rebel woman that serves as their guide through the network… It was always bound to raise eyebrows, and it’s precisely the genesis of such a reputation which has now found the lot of you here: on Coruscant, preparing to attend an Eve of Life Day masquerade ball.
The invitation, still resting precariously against the dash in the cockpit, had been hand-delivered by one of the Batch’s regular informants…
Senator Lux Attoga of Morozk kindly requests your presence at her Eve of Life Day Ball —
But of course, there’s so much more to it than that.
Senator Attoga, secret rebel sympathizer and notorious eccentric, had at last expressed her interest in discreetly contributing funds to the plight of the galaxy’s insurgent forces—on the condition that she speaks face-to-face with the Bad Batch, the rogue squad that has the entire Empire abuzz.
“It could be a trap,” Echo grumbles for the umpteenth time, leveling you with his solemn gaze as you finish helping him with his bow tie.
“So I’ve heard.” It is no small effort to disguise the long-suffering smile tugging at your lips, threatening to make light of a situation that could very well be as dire as Echo proclaims.
By all accounts, this Senator is one of few that actively speaks out against Imperial overreach… Her request truly might be yet another one of the many peculiarities that she has become known for.
But that doesn’t make the idea of waltzing, unarmed, into a high-brow Coruscant soirée any easier for the men of the Batch to stomach.
“Then why can’t I come?” Omega pouts from her position seated atop Gonky. You offer her a sympathetic smile as she adds, “For backup? ”
“This isn’t the kind of party that young people are invited to, lil’ womprat,” you soothe, laughing as the kid’s nose wrinkles at your use of the nickname. “Besides, we need somebody to watch over the Marauder and keep her safe. This isn’t exactly the most discreet hangar—”
“Anybody tries to get in,” Hunter interrupts, striding into the cargo hold to place a hand atop Omega’s shoulder. “You lock yourself in here and comm us immediately . Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Omega rolls her eyes; you suppress a chuckle.
As Hunter walks away, you nudge the girl, holding up your comically small evening bag with a conspiratorial look.
“I’ll try to sneak some snacks out, okay?”
Despite herself, Omega grins in amusement at the thought. You both turn your heads, though, upon hearing Tech’s voice chiming in from the cockpit.
“I trust everybody is ready to go?”
- - - - -
You aren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but whatever it was, the Senator’s home is so much more…
So much more .
White beams soar upward to meet glossy-paneled walls, and you’re not sure if it would look more like a church or a medbay… If it weren’t, of course, for the copious decorations draped from every surface. Garlands of crimson ribbon wind around tables and tie sprigs of fir to stair railings. You didn’t know that there were actually people that decorate for Life Day so extravagantly—you thought that places only looked like this in cheesy holovids. But it’s very much real, as are the throngs of people sipping refreshments in the foyer—white tie dress code, and each and every partygoer wearing a mask.
For yourself, you were lucky to find a relatively flattering obsidian-dark evening gown secondhand. Its semi-metallic sheen drapes your curves, flowing like liquid around your feet—giving you ample room to move, thankfully. Of the masks you’d found for yourself and your squad, you chose the simple red lace number, determining its hue to be a cheeky nod to the Batch’s signature colors.
“Best behavior, right, boys?” Hunter’s smoky voice murmurs low in warning as the lot of you hand your coats off to the doorman.
“I feel like I’m chokin’ , sarge.” Wrecker pulls a finger beneath his neatly-starched collar to illustrate, but Echo quickly slaps his hand away.
Wrecker, Hunter, Echo, Tech, and Crosshair are all dapper visions in black and white this evening. With the credits so generously provided by the Senator to help fund the visit, you were able to rent each of the boys a tuxedo for the night’s affair, and you’re ready to admit that each and every brother is looking darkly handsome.
“Stop fussing, Wrecker,” you mutter to your squadmate. “You look dashing.”
A frown tugs down his features, but you don’t miss the way that his cheeks pinken somewhat from beneath his angular silver mask. The sight causes affection to blossom in your chest, warming the places where anxiety has run it cold.
Moving into the next room, you’re struck by the smells of pine and berries perfuming the air. Warm white light bulbs float far above your heads, suspended in place by some neat trick of magnetism that you’ll no doubt be asking Tech to explain to you later. The incessant bustle of high-brow guests seems to part like water ahead to reveal a dance floor accompanied by a small band. Some sort of waltz is being played, with elegantly dressed couples twirling each other about the room in perfect rhythm.
Face warming, you suddenly feel woefully underdressed.
One such dancer wears a gown that seems to be comprised of countless strings of golden beads, trailing behind her like a stream of molten riches. Another man’s suit is trimmed with edges of crimson embroidery… And so on, and so on.
The crucial part of evading detection tonight was supposed to be blending in —but in your anxious state, your monochromatic squad seems bound to stand out.
You take a fortifying breath.
“So where is this Senator?” Crosshair murmurs, keen eyes scanning the crowd for any figures of note.
Hunter responds with a low hum, his own gaze trained upon two whispering waitstaff.
“I’m sure the Senator will come find us when she’s ready,” he states matter-of-factly, before reaching a hand in your direction without looking at you. “In the meantime, just try to blend in.”
You stare blankly at Hunter’s outstretched hand. “Sir…?”
At last, he meets your gaze—before darting a meaningful look towards the dance floor.
Oh .
Anxiety swirls through your gut as you accept his hand at last, and you try to ignore the poorly-disguised chuckle of Wrecker somewhere behind you. You plaster on a calm smile as a thousand objections pound at your brain.
“ Hunter ,” you begin in a low whisper as he leads you to the dance floor. “I don’t dance. At least… Not like this.” Your widened eyes turn pointedly to the floor’s other guests, high-class people turning one another about the floor like they were born to do so.
Hunter responds with a wry smirk.
“Here or a cantina, it’s all the same—just… Slower. C’mon,” he urges, suddenly pulling you close.
The Sergeant’s hands readily fit themselves between your fingers, around your waist… Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Tech and Echo by the punch bowl, drinks in hand, brows raised expectantly.
Before you can think too hard, you’re moving.
As with all uncharted territory, Hunter adapts well, gliding you to and fro with ease. A step forward here, to the side there—it’s a simple enough pattern to memorize… Suddenly, though, Hunter is lifting your chin with the edge of one finger; you’ve been staring at your feet, it would seem.
“Sorry,” you laugh sheepishly, meeting his dark brown eyes that are crinkled with amusement. Hunter’s mask is a glossy plane of shimmering metallic black; it suits the peeking edges of his tattoo well, you think. “I guess I’m a bit nervous.”
“I know,” he nods, grip on your waist tightening somewhat as he guides you into another turn. “But hopefully this night can pass without incident. The Senator is more interested in the novelty of us than anything else.”
You frown; in your time with the Batch, you’ve come to barely think of them as clones anymore—so distinct are they each… It sits uneasily with you that some rich asshole, rebel sympathizer or no, would go to all this trouble just to gawk at your friends.
As always, though, Hunter seems eerily privy to your thoughts.
“Don’t worry about us,” he reassures. Lifting your hand, he moves you into a twirl; and for a moment, butterflies soar through your stomach and make you forget all else. “We’ve got this.”
- - - - -
Wrecker’s expressive eyes are twinkling like those of a youngling on the morning of Life Day.
A servant droid had eventually sought you out on the dance floor and asked Hunter to accompany it to the Senator’s office… And after his reassurances, you parted ways with your Sergeant, coming over to meet Wrecker and Tech where they are now hanging around the refreshment table.
There’s a sizable punch bowl filled with a deep red liquid of some kind; it smells fruity and tart. A droid assists you in acquiring a glass, garnishing it with a sprig of some fragrant herb. A sip of the drink immediately warms you to the core; it’s spiced, sweet, and strong.
All sorts of little cookies, canapés, and tarts line the rest of the table. You sample one or two, finding the small bites to be infinitely more decadent than anything you’ve eaten in recent months… For himself, Wrecker has built quite an assortment upon a small plate and is digging in happily.
“Who knew tiny things could be so delicious?” His grin is infectious as he eats a miniature, berry-filled pie in a single bite.
“Have you ever met a food you didn’t like?” Tech raises a skeptical brow. Tech selected the one mask that appeared to fit atop his glasses; its iridescent, angular polygons meet the contours of his brow in severe lines.
Wrecker merely shrugs in response, letting loose a boisterous laugh before taking another bite.
You return to anxiously scanning the room… No sign of Hunter, still, and Echo and Crosshair are off doing Maker-knows-what. A classic Life Day tune plays softly from somewhere across the room, blending with the hum of conversation as the crowd almost-unconsciously sways in time to the rhythm. The party is an ocean of jewel tones bathed in golden light; if you weren’t so worried about your identities being discovered, you might be more enraptured by the beauty of it all.
Then: a hand on your shoulder.
You turn to see Tech’s gaze fixed upon you.
“Try not to dwell on variables of which you have no control,” he offers with a sympathetic smile.
Sweet, ever-thoughtful Tech… Of course he’s observed the tension radiating off of you.
You just want everyone to get out of here safe , that’s all…
But you nod in agreement all the same.
Something in Tech’s expression shifts, then, and he looks toward the dance floor with that thinking face of his.
“Would a distraction help?”
A welcome laugh bubbles up out of you.
“Tech, you sure know how to flatter a lady,” you grin. “ Yes , I will dance with you.”
His cheeks warm somewhat, but with a tentative smile, he waits for you to hand off your drink to Wrecker before he leads you to the floor.
It takes a bit of guidance on your part, but in no time at all, Tech has picked up on the rhythmic movements and is moving you across the floor with grace. Seeing the twinkle in his eye, the enjoyment that perhaps he’s a little embarrassed to express… It strikes you, then, just how lucky you are to have become a part of these men’s lives in the past year.
“Thank you, Tech,” you say before you’re able to talk yourself out of being candid. “For… Everything.”
Something akin to confusion prickles at his expression, but he nods all the same.
“You are a valued member of our squad. I simply do what I can to keep you with us,” he admits… And the words succeed in pulling at your heartstrings, in the uniquely roundabout way that only Tech can elicit.
“Tech,” you begin. “I’m not going anywhere—”
“At least, not long-term ,” a familiar voice interrupts, drawing you and Tech to a standstill. You both turn to see Echo’s masked face smiling in amusement. “May I cut in?”
You look to Tech; a silent question.
“Of course. I better make sure Wrecker hasn’t eaten half the spread, anyway,” Tech nods readily, drawing back.
As Echo steps in to take his place, you place a soft hand upon Tech’s shoulder.
“Thank you for the dance, Tech.”
You quickly learn that Echo is, curiously, the most proficient dance partner you’ve had tonight. With unexpected flair, he pulls you close to his chest, whirling you around the floor in a way that leaves heads turning. Before you know it, you’re laughing in wanton delight.
“Echo!” You exclaim, a grin warming your expression. “All these months, and I’m only now discovering your true calling?”
His responding low chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. Echo’s mask is a rich shade of blue, and behind it, the deep umber of his eyes appraises you mischievously.
“I had my day at 79’s, to be sure, ma’am,” he smiles. “But you shouldn’t sell yourself short, either.”
Between Echo’s prowess and the band’s swinging tune, the whole activity succeeds in lightening your mood.
The standard year is nearing its end, but this might be the first time you’ve truly given yourself time to reflect on all that’s transpired in the past several months. Not too long ago, you were scraping together meals at a rebel refugee camp on the periphery of the Empire’s jurisdiction—no family, nothing but the clothes on your back… Now, of course, your home is the Marauder —its crew of rogue clones, your family.
And if tonight is any indication, you’re no longer hiding, praying to whoever is listening that you’ll escape notice—you’re doing good , right under the Empire’s nose.
In this kind of life, there’s no telling what next year may bring… But whatever it is, you know you won’t have to face it alone.
Loosening up, you happily chat with Echo about all there is to drink in: the lights, the music… Until a particular turn draws your attention back to the crowd. On the edge of the dance floor, your gaze finds Wrecker, Tech, and Crosshair. The squad’s sharpshooter offers you a solemn nod, eyes darting meaningfully to the grand staircase on one side of the room, and you understand immediately: you’re being summoned.
- - - - -
Senator Attoga’s office looks much the same as that of her home which you saw downstairs, except without the comforting benefit of Life Day decorations to soften its severity. In the sterile white light of the room, you stand alongside the rest of the Bad Batch as the Senator assesses you.
When you had entered mere moments ago with Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair, the sight of Hunter’s sterner-than-usual expression as he awaited you inside had immediately told you that something is… Off.
“Shouldn’t there be one more?” The woman seated at her desk before you frowns.
Senator Lux Attoga is a human that looks to be in her late forties, early fifties. She is dressed just as extravagantly as any of her guests downstairs in a green velvet sheath dress that doesn’t quite catch the light of the office’s numerous lamps. Behind her sculpted mask of golden leaves, blue eyes spark with curiosity as they look over each man in turn before settling, at last, upon you.
“We thought it best that she stay behind for this visit, Senator,” you answer plainly. You opt not to say that Omega is on the ship, of course, or even to state her name to this stranger—you dart a quick glance toward Hunter, trying to read how much the Senator might already know, but the Sergeant’s masked face is fixed into the inscrutable expression of a soldier’s calm.
“Hm. A pity,” Senator Attoga hums thoughtfully.
“And why is that?” Crosshair’s biting drawl instantly responds, and you hope that your scarlet mask does something to hide your wince.
The Senator merely shrugs. “I’ve never seen a youngling of your kind… And a girl at that. Quite the curiosity, wouldn’t you agree?”
You can practically hear Crosshair’s temper coiling to strike, and you can’t say that you’re feeling entirely composed yourself… Potential benefactor or no, the woman before you clearly views your companions as assets rather than people, and that doesn’t sit well with you at all.
All the same, for the safety of your friends, you need to find a way to diffuse the tension—and fast.
You sidestep toward Crosshair, intercepting the Senator’s gaze once more.
“I believe you’ll find the entire Batch to be loyal and capable allies in the effort to resist the Empire, Senator Attoga,” you interject with a smile. “These men are not only stand-up soldiers, but my dearest friends.”
The Senator’s brow raises, at this; the details of your relationship with your squadmates have, evidently, piqued her interest… But you’re not about to give her the opportunity to pry further. Feeling the eyes of your friends on you, you continue unfazed.
“We’re immensely grateful for your invitation tonight, and if you don’t mind, I’m sure me and the fellas would love to enjoy the remainder of the celebration… And perhaps discuss further details of your contribution once the gathering has dispersed?”
This play to her ego appears to succeed, as she straightens somewhat upon hearing your gratitude.
“Yes, of course. Silly me,” Attoga smiles serenely as she rises from her seat. “I’ll see you back out to the party.”
- - - - -
“That was some speech,” Crosshair remarks.
Back downstairs amongst the guests once more, you broke away from Hunter’s huddled briefing about his discussion with the Senator to find yourself a drink and sit down on one of the plush settees in the less-crowded corridors. Sipping on the sweet crimson concoction, you were nearly zoning out just now—until Crosshair came to find you. Quietly, he takes the empty seat beside you, and you glance sidelong at him.
“I don’t know about that,” you reply. “I was just saying what I really think—and trying not to lose it on her, to be honest.”
“Yeah,” a knowing smirk plays at Crosshair’s lips. “Me too.”
For a moment, the two of you sit there like that, silent and smiling and both entirely weary of this evening.
That is, until Crosshair turns to face you in earnest, offering his hand.
“You want to dance?”
A grin instantly blossoms across your features, and you suddenly feel like a teenager doing something devious.
“With you? ” You smile, eliciting an eyeroll from your potential partner. “I’d love to, but I wouldn’t have thought it’d be your kind of scene.”
You abandon your drink on the side table before resting your hand in his, and together, you rise from your seats.
“Guess it’s not,” Crosshair admits with a half-shrug. “But… Consider it a thank you . For sticking by us.”
You meet his dark eyes, cast in the shadow of his angular black mask, and warmth spreads across your cheeks.
Hand-in-hand, Crosshair leads you back into the main room and onto the dance floor. You’re beginning to find comfort in the act—of being pulled close, of finding the rhythm alongside another person. You think that you could grow to love dancing like this if your partners are always those so near and dear to you.
Crosshair’s movements are rigidly controlled, but that is not to say he moves without grace. With one lithe hand cradling your lower back, he pulls you into a sway that feels as natural as walking.
“You’re not so bad,” you remark, meeting Crosshair’s gaze with a playful smile.
“Never said I was,” he smirks, before offering a solemn nod to some sight behind you. As he pulls you into another turn, you’re able to spot the sight which caught his attention:
Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, and Echo stand together at one edge of the room, cutting fine figures in their fancy attire. They appear to have spotted you and Crosshair out on the floor, as the four of them are all gazing in your direction; Hunter raises his drink in toast to you before taking another sip.
The sight of your squad—your family —being offered a rare moment of holiday respite makes your heart feel impossibly full. You squeeze Crosshair’s hand with your own.
“I’ll always have your backs,” you swallow thickly. You watch from a distance as Wrecker says something that inspires warm laughter from his brothers; with a tentative smile, you turn your gaze back to Cross. “You know that… Right?”
His masked face doesn’t hesitate to nod in confirmation.
“I know. We all know.”