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The wind howled and screamed in Crosshair’s ears, nearly drowning out the ever-nearer cries of the ice vultures. The cold bit at the tips of his fingers and his uncovered face as the wind found every gap in his armor, biting at his skin.
“Just another ridge,” Mayday said, his voice nearly disappearing into the wind.
“Just an-nother r-ridge,” Crosshair agreed through his chattering teeth.
So they made it over another ridge. And then another, leaving their rapidly-refilling tracks in the snow behind them. And the shadowed shape of wings circled them.
“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc—”
Crosshair hauled Mayday up again as he slumped over, still muttering in Mando’a, words Crosshair had heard before, from Cody, from Echo.
“C’mon, Commander. Stay with me,” Crosshair hissed.
Mayday took another stumbling step.
“—ni partayli, gar darasuum.”
The words, barely audible, punctuated by coughing and low, helpless moans of pain, accompanied them through the storm, a repeating cadence.
“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.”
Echo had translated them for Crosshair, once, his voice low and reverent, his bruise-shadowed eyes solemn. A rare moment of vulnerability.
“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” Echo had recited. “‘I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.’”
Interspersed throughout the repeating remembrances, Crosshair made out names, some familiar, some not. Hexx. Veetch. Spork. Blink. Flinch. Sometimes their own names, Mayday and Crosshair, took a place amongst the ranks of the dead.
“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.”
“Tell me about them.”
In the howling wind, Crosshair could have pretended not to hear Mayday’s question. He didn’t.
“Who?” Crosshair asked, just to be obstinate, as he curled himself closer around Mayday.
“Your squad.” Mayday let out a laugh that turned into a cough. His arm tightened around Crosshair’s waist. “I could use the distraction.”
“Hm. You first.”
Mayday’s helmet bobbed the same way Tech’s did when he rolled his eyes.
“One for one. How ‘bout that?”
“Fine.”
Mayday began to speak, a deep rhythm against the high-pitched howling of the wind.
“You met Hexx and Veetch. Hexx was my oldest, and Veetch was one of my youngest. Practically joined at the hip after… well, after the others went. Hexx was a listener. Observant. Told the best stories around the glow-lamp.” Mayday’s head settled onto Crosshair’s shoulder. “Hexx… he told fewer stories as the months went on. After we lost Blink, though… the stories stopped.”
Silence moved in, telling Crosshair that Mayday was done. Crosshair licked his lips and began.
“My sergeant’s name was Hunter,” Crosshair said. The name caught in his throat. He made himself keep talking. “Real softie, despite appearances. Always making sure everyone ate, making sure no one was hurt after missions. Had long hair and this big, obnoxious skull tattoo on his face.”
Mayday laughed. “You’re one to talk about obnoxious tattoos.” His voice dropped into a low, mocking rasp. “My name is Crosshair, and I have a tattoo of a crosshair because I’m a sniper,” Mayday hissed, drawing out the “s” on sniper like a snake. “I’ll bet you’re one who took the time to dye your hair, aren’t ya?”
Crosshair didn’t answer, and Mayday poked him in the ribs.
“You did, didn’t you? What color?”
Crosshair sighed, and Mayday poked him again.
“Color.”
“Silver.”
Mayday chuckled. “‘Course it was. Heh.”
Crosshair rolled his eyes.
“Your turn,” he prompted.
Mayday shifted closer to Crosshair, his armor clattering against Crosshair’s as he shivered.
“Veetch liked to watch sappy holo-dramas. Had a whole library of ‘em downloaded on his datapad. His favorite was this ridiculous medical drama set on Coruscant. When he wanted to annoy Blink, he used to imitate that high, proper Coruscanti accent the actors had.”
Crosshair huffed out a laugh.
“One of my batchmates used to do the same thing. Loved action holos— he liked all those stupid catchphrases the actors said when they did something ‘cool.’”
“What was his name?”
“Wrecker.”
“Wrecker? Here I thought ‘Crosshair’ and ‘Hunter’ were less than subtle. Let me guess. Demolitions expert?”
“Best in the GAR,” Crosshair said. “He could defuse a bomb in nothing flat and he could fix anything with wires. Couldn’t cook to save his life, though. He once burned a pan of brownies so badly it activated the fire alarms in our barracks.”
Mayday chuckled.
“Flinch couldn’t cook, either. Must be something in those Jango genes. But he made the best spiced caf. And he couldn’t ever sit still. Always hanging off Blink or messing around with Spork. Veetch kept threatening to shoot Flinch if he put him in one more headlock, but they fell asleep in each other’s bunks more nights than not, watching Veetch’s stupid holos.”
“When Flinch died… Veetch took it hard. Got quiet. I don’t think he ever watched another holo.”
Another long silence. The echoing, almost plaintive cry of an ice vulture sounded from within the white-out of the storm.
“Your turn, Cross.”
Crosshair wrinkled his nose.
“Cross?”
Mayday turned his head to look up at his face.
“No one ever think of that one?”
“No, they did. Just… haven’t heard it in a while. When he was small, Tech used to—”
“Tech?” Mayday interrupted. “Don’t tell me his name was short for technician?”
“Actually, it was short for ‘Technically,’ because that’s how he began every kriffing sentence.” Crosshair raised his voice into the crisp, clean inflections of Tech’s accent. “‘Technically, Crosshair, the statistical probability of us all dying on this mission is only 13.6%.’ ‘Technically, these insects are classified as poisonous, not venomous.’ Everywhere he went, he recorded things. Sounds, sights, wildlife, plants… endlessly curious. The second the blasterfire stopped, he would be off collecting beetles and forcing me to help him take samples of algae.”
“Spork was a bit like that,” Mayday said. “Shiny, right off Kamino when he came to us. Those Kaminoans, damned aruetiise, were shipping them out so young. He was eight. He’d never seen the snow. Never seen anything but water and white-walled rooms. He was curious. Collected silly little things. Had a whole shelf full of ‘em. Even had the others bringing things back for him. Rocks. Feathers.”
Mayday went quiet, but Crosshair didn’t press him, sensing that he wasn’t done.
“Spork tried to stop a raider from taking a crate. Got a blaster hole to the gut for it. Took… took him eight days to die.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mayday hummed in response. For a long time, they were quiet, with only the sounds of the wind and the vultures and Crosshair’s chattering teeth. Without Mayday’s voice, the hurt crept back in again, clamoring to be acknowledged. Everything hurt. Crosshair couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. The cold had settled so deeply in his bones, into every memory. He couldn’t remember a time before the cold.
Crosshair rested his cheek on Mayday’s helmet. It would be so easy to go to sleep. To let the snow swallow him up, to lull him down under an icy blanket. To go to sleep and finally have no dreams. To slumber as the vultures ripped into his insides. It would be so easy…
“Crosshair.”
Mayday’s voice cut through the wind.
“Crosshair.”
When did I shut my eyes?
“Stay with me, Cross. This ain’t a place to die.”
A roughly bandaged hand on his face, a small warmth. Crosshair forced his eyes open.
“That’s it,” Mayday said. He patted Crosshair’s cheek and then settled his weight against him again with a pained wheeze.
“How are you?” Crosshair asked.
“Never better.”
The words had barely left his mouth before he started coughing, the sound wet and rattling. Crosshair’s chest squeezed at the sound, briefly and viscerally reminded of Echo’s violent coughing fits after his cybernetic respiratory system was damaged by a reg’s carelessly thrown droid-popper. The fit passed, and Mayday lifted his helmet just long enough to wipe his mouth, giving Crosshair a glimpse of blood-reddened lips and teeth stained pink before he slid it back into place.
“You said earlier it was a five-man squad,” Mayday said, his voice hoarse, as he began to count off on his fingers. “You, Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker. Who’s the fifth man?”
“Echo.”
“Hm. What was his deviation?”
“Didn’t have one. He was a reg like you.”
“Hm. I’m sure there’s a story there.”
“Prisoner of war. Sold to the Techno Union and experimented on.”
Mayday recoiled the slightest bit.
“Shit.”
“By the time we got to him, he was more machine than man. I… didn’t trust him at first. But from the second we pulled him out of that lab, he was a fighter. Took the things they bolted into him and turned them into weapons.”
Some part of Crosshair had been surprised when he missed Echo just as much as he missed Wrecker, Tech, and Hunter. He’d been with them for such a short amount of time, relative to the others. But with that same stubborn, bullheaded determination he applied to everything he did, Echo had carved out a spot in their squad. He was a calm, steady presence in their often tumultuous squad of deviants, always there to be a listening ear for Tech, a helping hand for Hunter, or a wrestling partner for Wrecker. With a bittersweet pang, Crosshair allowed himself to remember companionable moments at the shooting range with Echo, late nights sitting up on the Marauder’s roof when they couldn’t sleep.
Force, Crosshair missed him. He missed all of them. There, slumped against the rocks, his body shaking, the wind slicing through him, the realization rose from where he’d buried it and shoved it down, where he’d tried to kill it. With inevitable force, homesickness slammed into Crosshair like a blaster bolt to the heart.
“I miss them,” Crosshair finished, the words small and woefully inadequate. Beside him, Mayday nodded, his body curling closer around Crosshair.
“I know, brother. I know.”
Crosshair woke. A set of brown eyes watched him.
The ice vulture cocked its head as he raised his head to face it, as if surprised to see its meal moving.
“Fuck off,” Crosshair hissed at it.
The vulture didn’t move.
Crosshair turned his attention to Mayday. He lay against Crosshair’s chest, cold and unmoving.
“Mayday.”
No answer.
“Mayday. Wake up.”
The vulture took a slow step toward them, its hooked claws clicking against the stone. It let out a deep, sonorous cry, and its brethren in the sky answered.
“I told you to fuck off!” Crosshair snarled at the vulture.
With a slow blink, the vulture spread its wide feathered wings and fluttered to a nearby ridge, where it landed amongst a small committee of others, their dark wings half-spread like cloaks and their heads bowed as if in prayer.
Crosshair jostled Mayday harder, shifting his own weight under him. Mayday’s head rolled limply on his neck, his helmet thudding against Crosshair’s pauldron. Crosshair’s blood went impossibly colder.
“Mayday!”
On Crosshair’s arm, Mayday’s cloth-wrapped hand tightened.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mayday wheezed. “Stop your yelling. Gonna give me a headache.”
Crosshair hugged him closer, too tired to come up with an insult or a jab, relief making his knees weak.
Mayday straightened, his helmet turning toward the horizon, the frayed wrappings snapping in the wind. From the ridge, the vultures’ dark eyes watched.
“Well, on your feet, soldier,” Mayday said softly.
Ignoring the protests of his aching bones and his shaking body, Crosshair forced himself to his feet, hauling Mayday up with him, holding him close against his side. Mayday’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and then he took a halting step forward.
“Ready?” Crosshair asked, helping Mayday get his Firepuncher under his arm as a crutch.
Mayday nodded, the dark shape of his visor looking north.
“Nowhere to go but forward, Cross. It’s time to march on.”