Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hunter wonders, every day of his life and in no uncertain terms, how he is still alive.

It is a gruesome thought and he knows it, but that does not make it any less prevalent than it is. It is, in a word, perpetual, and he marvels at the idea over and over again until his head is spinning.

The idea of being alive has never been simple in concept. Not for him. Not for his brothers. Not for any clone, really. Because one day, they woke up and just like that, they were. They were breathing, alive, feeling the world around them with an effortless naturalism that transcends any such experience that nat born sentients will ever have. One moment, he did not exist, and the next, in the blink of an eye, he already knew - albeit subconsciously - the difference between his hands and his feet.

As a small child, and soon after, a cadet, he didn’t give it any thought. It didn’t really matter. He was brought into the Galaxy with a predetermined purpose, and trained from the second that words made coherent sentences in his mind to hone the ‘enhancements’ his specially curated set of genes bestowed upon him. That was life. Black and white, cut and dry. Wake up, train, cooperate with any given experimentation that each new day brought along with it (cooperating was easier than resisting, because then the only pain was the experiment itself, sans added punishment), then off to bed.

When he became older, and he and his brothers graduated, training became battle. But the premise never changed, only the risk. And the experimentation went away.

Then wake up, and do it all again with each day that follows.

With that training, he was taught to prepare for death. His death, a comrade’s death, a brother’s death. Death was an accepted part of life, a lingering inevitability that, one day, and for some sooner than others, each and every clone will have to face. Hunter used to think it was silly, the emphasis that the Kaminoans and trainers put on preparation for death. Once you are gone, you are gone. In the same way he was created, he will leave; suddenly, and without gradual awareness. One, and done.

Until he experienced the battlefield for the first time, that is.

He doesn’t remember the action, or the battle itself, as vividly as he did those few years ago, but he remembers the thoughts. The thoughts are always here, swimming. Circulating. Suffocating.

Soldiers, regs, dare he say distant brothers, fell around him that day. So many of them. Like dejarik pieces, one by one. None of them his squad mates, he real brothers, and he thanks the Maker for that. But they could have been. It could have been anyone. They were just lucky. He has never been one for this sort of existentialism, but there is an effect that witnessing death has on a man, a soldier, and for Hunter, it was a warning, a challenge, and a realization of fragility.

And he loves his brothers too much, did then, does now, to take death so lightly anymore.

Sure, they were bold, they took risks. Him more than anyone. But he knew where to draw a line. Where to tease death, mock it, laugh in its face. Do something stupid and survive. That was their game, the philosophy of Clone Force Ninety-Nine, ‘The Bad Batch’; death can’t catch them so long as they’re moving fast enough, and believe him, they moved fast enough, because they were GOOD. They were the BEST. They never fell to death’s waiting hands. Because they trained. And that training made sense to him, now. The emphasis on avoiding death made sense.

Heeding the warning while meeting the challenge.

Of course, just when he thought, after years of trial and error and close calls in spite of themselves, that he was immovable in that view, his entire Galaxy, and everything he knew, came crashing down by a force of nature perhaps stronger than his first time in the field had been.

And that ‘force of nature’ is currently - almost literally - running circles around him.

Again.

“Omega!” Hunter hisses, weaving through a small crowd of bumbling, unaware Weequay between him and the rowdy child left exclusively under his care at the moment. She has a tendency, no doubt a result, in part, of her force sensitivity, to wander off in pursuit of something that either piques her interests or otherwise catches her attention whilst they are anywhere but the Marauder. Her acute ability to feel things on a higher plane than the rest of them appears to result in heightened and undefeated curiosity.

That, and the fact that she is a young child who was, for the majority of her life this far, deprived of outside experience. He cannot and does not exactly fault her for either; it’s nature, in a way.

What he would appreciate, however, is if she would make a habit of instead alerting him - or any of the others, when they are present - to such things before taking off to investigate them. This would not only spare the unfortunate sense of panic that is constantly gnawing at the back of his mind the trouble of coming forward to momentarily control him, but it would also make his job as her guardian, - her buir, her father - with the constant goal of ensuring her safety, a hell of a lot easier.

Upon hearing her name, Omega skids to a grinding halt several feet forward, stumbling over the road, unruly mop of blonde hair bouncing behind her. She whips her head around to face him, pink cheeks flushed in the midst of all the excitement, grinning from ear to ear.

Closing the gap between them, Hunter breathes an exasperated sigh and places a gentle hand on the top of her head, not to ruffle her hair, but to keep her divided attention for just long enough to try and get through to her. “Please don’t run ahead,” he says, on the cusp of outright begging. It’s pathetic, but he doesn’t care. This is his kid, after all, even if he’s never said it so bluntly as that. “This is shoddy terrain, soldier,” he adds, aiming for levity. “Gotta stay close so I can keep an eye on ya, right?”

‘Shoddy terrain’ meaning the streets of Ord Mantell. Dark, dingy, and disgusting, littered with waste and scraps of… whatever so happens to fall into the street. Shrapnel on the sides of the roads, bars every other block, ‘patrons’ and spice dealers and flat-out, unashamed drunkards flailing around. They may be used to it by now, but that doesn’t make him like it, and it doesn’t make it any more safe. It’s dodgy at best, and an outright threat to life and limb at worst.

Omega’s smile holds steady, but she shoots him an apologetic glance anyway. “Sor-ry,” she drawls lightheartedly, picking at the hem of her two-sizes-too-big navy jacket. “But I saw a tooka kitten! He was hungry, I-I still have some ration bar in my pocket from earlier and I know he probably doesn’t really eat that but he was still hungry and I wanna help-“ she insists, blinking impatiently.

Of course it was a little creature. It’s almost always a little creature of some kind, isn’t it? Somehow, her force sensitivity means that she also has the ability to communicate… or is it connect… with animals and insects and creatures and the like, by understanding their needs or wants or feelings through the force. Tech explained it to them all, some time ago, and he’s seen it a bit for himself here and there, but he’s not sure he’ll ever really understand it. All he knows for certain is that it means if she picks up on desperate need or distress, she’s off like a whip to catch them and help.

“That’s-“ he pauses before he really begins, trying to find the right thing to say. She’s just a kid, with intentions to offer assistance to something in need. What is he supposed to do, tell her no? It doesn’t help that he is completely powerless against her innocently hopeful looks. “That’s fine. Just tell me, please? If you keep wandering off one day my heart is gonna stop and I’ll be a goner before Tech gets here to resuscitate me.”

“Promise!” she beams up at him, leaning forward and grabbing his hand with an eagerness to move on now. “C’mon, let’s go! He went down that way!” She waves with her free hand towards what looks like the end of the street, and gives his arm a firm tug to jumpstart his way forward.

He allows himself to be pulled along, but is forced to keep his balance when he nearly trips, eyes wide and still trying to ease his mind in full from the fact that she had walked off out of his sight in the first place.

Hunter wonders, every day of his life since Omega came into it, how in the Maker’s name he’s still alive.

Unlike during the war, the threats to his life now are… circumstantial, so to speak. Some, avoidable, and some, more or less his own fault. During the war, there was not much he could do to control whom or what it was that got in his face, up close and personal, aiming to take his life. He could only fight back, deter them. And if he didn’t, well then, who would he be? He can’t possibly begin to speculate. He didn’t know any other way.

But with a child under his care, and his family living as fugitives, his perception of death, and susceptibility to such, has been drastically changed. He doesn’t take risks, not like he used to. He’s careful, precise, only does what he needs. His brushes with death are few and far between, and he no longer seeks the thrill, or teases the eventual fate of every living being with close calls meant to challenge its inevitability.

And, for the first time in his life, he is at risk of - as he has said - dropping dead from fear-induced heart failure.

Apparently, according to Tech’s research regarding child-rearing, a kid can do that to you.

His kid certainly does.

The only thing that he suspects is keeping him alive is the limited solace he finds in the fact that she is, at the very least, dressed in clothing better suited to protect her than she was for their first several months spent together.

After what occurred on Ajan Kloss, and the subsequent events at Tafanda Bay, on top of the reality that is Omega’s force sensitivity fully sinking in, he sat everyone down to come to some sort of agreement as to how they should proceed. Strategy, some new ground rules, and most importantly, the general approach to protection; in other words, gear catered to their current living situation, and the needs it brought about.

Figuring things out for themselves - him and his brothers, that is - was the easy part. They invested in proper civvies, a task long overdue. Then, Echo and Tech suggested that they take a crack at fresh coats of paint for their armor, as well as a few practical modifications. It wasn’t a bad idea, seeing as how the Empire has them on file looking a certain way, as it were, and any opportunity to throw them off the trail should be taken. On top of that, Wrecker was enthusiastic about the prospect of adding a ‘splash of life’ here or there. Omega had rather eagerly insisted she be allowed to help them pick out what colors to use.

Thus, Hunter has ended up with an array of teals and off-whites, red and orange accents over a lighter gray than he is used to. He exchanged the legs of his old military blacks for brown trousers, and adapted the torso to sit under his chestplate to add an extra layer of protection in light of the fact that he’s reduced his katarn equipment to account for some new clothing. He’s even gone so far as to start wearing a scarf, if only for the look and feel of the thing. All in all, a big change, but not an unwelcome one. Both a sound tactic to buffer personal security, and - dare he say it - fun.

Omega wasn’t quite as easy to acquire gear for.

Despite his initial apprehension regarding the idea of a helmet, at the end of the day, he had to cave. For one, it was everyone else against him. But more importantly, she made a very real argument in saying that this sort of protection is… necessary. It’s unfortunate, and it makes his stomach churn, but it’s true. And, ironically, finding a helmet that suited her was the easiest part of the whole ordeal.

Finding clothes for a kid her age isn’t difficult. Finding clothes capable of protecting a kid her age from the various dangers of running from the Empire is. They had to put the ensemble together piece by piece before he was satisfied with the breadth of the metaphorical safety net that the new clothing is supposed to be. More importantly, he never wants to force her into wearing something that she isn’t comfortable with. Not that they have a lot of room to be overly selective, but being able to choose is a simple freedom she was never allowed before. He does not wish to perpetuate that.

Luckily, she had no qualms with anything that they managed to locate suitable for the job. She adores the jacket, especially because Tech had to sew it up in the back to make it a better fit. She very expressly informed them that the red shirt makes her feel ‘cool’, as do the new boots. And when he offered her one of his spare bandanas as some means of controlled personalization, (and that is decidedly the reason, nothing else to it, not at all) she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and nearly burst into tears of joy (a fact he has decidedly not considered in depth, either, not once).

It took two grueling weeks for them to get everything together for the squad as a whole, and they did very little work for Cid in the interim, over which she had not been pleased. It’s left them… thin in funds ever since, but he does not regret it, and their timing couldn’t have been better. They had only just fit together the last of it when they were sent off to Serenno and had a brush with death. Then Tech, Wrecker and Omega pulled that terrifying stunt out in Safa Toma. Phee roped the lot of them into joining her at Skara Nal; they’ve been nonstop for nearly a month.

The gear has already come in handy. It had been an exhausting process, and it broke his heart, one step away from gearing up their little girl for battle. But it was worth it. And it’s keeping him alive, keeping his heart from giving out completely. So all in all, it makes a difference.

He’s shaken abruptly out of his reminiscence when Omega comes to another sudden stop, pressing her hand to his chest to stop him, too. “There,” she whispers, bright brown eyes wide in awe. With her free hand, she points ahead towards the outer wall of a building falling apart, and a durasteel pipe running up against the corner. Behind the pipe and squeezed in the tiny gap between the decaying building and a busted, abandoned landspeeder, he spots the tooka kitten.

“He’s adorable,” Omega coos, eyes soft and careful, as she slowly moves closer. “Isn’t he cute, Hunter?”

Hunter isn’t certain that’s the word he would use for it. It looks a little worse for wear, with dirty white and brown fur sticking up in all directions like that of a womp-rat. It’s skinny, scraggly, maybe. He’s seen better. But he’ll be damned if he says any of that out loud, even though she can probably sense his indifference.

Instead, he opts for truthfulness. “It definitely looks hungry,” he remarks, arching one brow.

She nods, inching nearer with slow sort of tip-toes. “Hello,” she murmurs to the tooka, crouching down and reaching into her pocket at the same time. “I can share my food, if you want,” she tells it, and it probably doesn’t understand the words at all. But she doesn’t need it to. “See? Got some right here.”

Pulling her fist from her pocket, she holds it up right in front of its face. In her palm, half of a ration bar, loosely sitting in remnants of a wrapper. Somewhere between watching the tooka crane its tiny neck forward with long ears flattened as it sniffs at the bar cautiously, and noticing the patch of fur missing from its crooked tail, he wonders if there are crumbs in her pocket now.

“Be careful, don’t let it eat right out of your hand,” he instructs, tapping her shoulder with two fingers. “Wild tookas get sick easier. Don’t want you pickin’ up animal diseases.” He keeps his tone light, and it earns a string of giggles, but he does mean it. The last thing they need is any one of them falling ill.

Generally well-behaved as she is, Omega drops the pieces of ration bar on the street under her hand, mindful to catch the wrapper, then pulls it away when the tooka leans forward. Sure enough, it practically dives at the bits of leftover food as soon as she falls back into a subdued crouch, mewling quietly after a few greedy bites. She grins wider and wider, giggles some more, and her eyes light up, glistening with a purity that is so often rendered dull, if not entirely invisible, by the less than ideal experiences of their minacious day to day.

Hunter can’t help the fondness that overtakes him, both internally and in his outward presentation. He stopped fighting it a long time ago, if he’s being wholly honest, but it’s moments like these that really get him. Moments when she is gifted the luxury of… well, childhood. When she gets to be a kid, if only for a short while, and he’s reminded of just how young and innocent she really is. Drawn in by little animals, stumbling over her own two feet just to help others, pleased by the smallest thing. He doesn’t get it, not really. His upbringing was never like this; accelerated aging and all.

He doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t fight it, and he never will. It makes her happy. That’s enough.

“It’s scarfing it down. Food’s almost gone already,” Hunter comments, causing Omega to look up at him over her shoulder. “Here,” he smiles, fishing a hand around in the front pouch of his belt, and pulls out an unopened ration bar of his own. “Give it this, too. We got plenty more back on the ship.”

‘Plenty more’ is a stretch. They have enough to get by. She probably knows that, too, but she doesn’t refuse his offer, practically snatching the ration bar out of his hand. “Thank you!” she chirps, hastening to peel off the wrapper and break it into a few smaller pieces that’ll be easier for the tooka to digest. “Here ya go.” Laughing quietly so as not to startle it, she sprinkles the pieces onto the ground and shuffles backwards, hitting Hunter’s knees.

“I think he gets hungry like this a lot,” she tells him without looking up, focused tentatively on the animal, wrapping her arms over her knees and bunching up the wrappers in her fist. “I wish we could take it back, but Echo probably wouldn’t like a real tooka on the ship.”

Putting a hand on top of her hair, Hunter sighs, pursuing his lips. None of them would like a tooka kitten on the ship, actually, except Wrecker.

Echo would grumble about it the most, no doubt about that, but Tech and himself probably wouldn’t be much better. Tech would give some spiel about the various risks that keeping a living, breathing pet on the ship can pose, and as soon as the little bastard started getting into his things, he’d likely demand it be permanently removed. Hunter is confident he could tolerate it for a while, but he has a feeling that it would chew things, or trip people, if not both, and he knows himself well enough to be absolutely positive he would lose his mind with frustration after long enough.

“Yeah, sorry kid, I don’t think bringing a tooka back would go over so well,” he replies, aiming for apologetic. He is, to some degree. Plenty of little kids - civilian kids - keep pets. But they’re just not in a position to do that right now. “But I bet it appreciates you feeding it now.”

“It does,” she answers instantly with a buoyant confidence.

It always catches him off guard, a little, when she’s so inexorably sure of herself like this. It's because of her force sensitivity, so it isn’t like it comes from nowhere at all, but he never spent a lot of time around force sensitives during the war, so unlike Echo, the rest of them still aren’t accustomed to the general behavior that comes with being able to sense things.

When he first found out that she was force sensitive, and Tech explained everything to him in excruciatingly limited detail, he had been, to put it lightly, terrified. Part of that fear was the idea that none of them know how to teach her to handle it, and that fear was brought to life when she discovered her abilities and fled thinking that she would prove a burden to them. Of course, she never will, and he has been sure to reinforce that truth every day since, not having realized before how relentless that fear is for her. They’ve bolstered their emotional support, sure to remind her that they love her, and they’re here when she needs.

But it’s not untrue that he can’t offer her guidance in how to hone or control or even understand her connection to the force.

Luckily, in the last month and some that’s gone by, it hasn’t been all that bad. Tech was able to borrow (steal) a few classified files containing ancient Jedi texts from the Imperial archives for her to look at. Hunter would be lying if he were to say he understands even half of what any of it means, but thanks to Tech’s genius and her own knack for intuition, Omega has managed to learn a little bit. In their down time, or while traveling, she’s taken to trying to figure out how to sense things with more precision, as a start.

And she’s gotten better, even if just a little; that counts for something. It’s more than he’ll ever be able to do, and he’s proud of her for it. Though, she starkly refuses to try moving anything without touching it. She’s only done it a few times, and they weren’t pleasant experiences, so he doesn’t blame her. He hasn’t failed to notice, though, how cautious she’s been of moving her hands in large motions, mindful that she may accidentally wield the force again without meaning to.

He hates to see her walking on eggshells like that. ‘Baby steps.’ That’s what Tech keeps saying, and Hunter has to agree. Last thing he wants is to cause overwhelm.

Giving her hair a short ruffle, Hunter sighs. “We should get back to the ship,” he says carefully, knowing full well that she has the willpower to sit here and do nothing short of stare at the tooka like an aurean vulture. “Others are probably wonderin’ what’s takin’ us so long,” he adds, though mostly under his breath. “And Wrecker’s probably bored out of his mind without you there.”

That gets her to look up at him, the prospect of going back to rough-house and mess around with Wrecker undoubtedly appealing by default. It works every time. “Hmm,” she purses her lips as if she needs to think long and hard about it. “He’s probably driving Tech crazy,” she agrees, nodding her head sharply.

Definitely. Wrecker is definitely driving Tech crazy. Hunter and Omega were never supposed to be out this long to begin with, either. They are only here to pick up some meager credits that Cid owes them for a brief drop-off they did earlier that morning. If it weren’t for Omega’s detour, they would have been back by now. Wrecker is losing his mind with boredom, no doubt about that.

Wordlessly, Hunter outstretches his hand for her to take, and she does. He pulls her up off the ground, the pair of them sparing another quick glance at the tooka kitten inhaling the last bits of ration bar littered in front of it, crooked tail shaking ever so slightly.

“Bye,” Omega murmurs, waving a little. For a split second, the Tooka actually turns its head up as if to acknowledge her, before returning to its meal. Blink, and you’d miss it. But neither of them did, and it seems to keep the smile unfaltering on Omega’s face.

Hunter nudges her forward, gentle but firm, and lets her take the lead. He maintains a loose grip on her hand for the first few seconds, allowing her to pull hers away if she would like to, but she doesn’t. She keeps her much smaller hand wrapped up in his, and when he feels sure enough that this is what she wants, he allows himself to squeeze her fingers and hold on.

It’s a personal reassurance of sorts, getting to hold her hand. It’s a physical reminder that she’s right here, safe, alive. There have been too many instances now, too many close calls, where he’s sworn he was going to lose her. Corellia, Bracca, Kamino, and most recently, Tafanda Bay. Moments when she was taken from him, or dangerously out of sight, and he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t pick up her breathing or her heartbeat or track her down.

His enhanced senses failed him, and there was nothing he could do but rely on his training and determination to find her.

Omega is a tactile kid, though. He doesn’t like to think too much on the implications of that fact, but it is ultimately helpful, because it means when she isn’t running ahead, she’s often looking for someone’s hand to grab onto, or an arm to pull at. He has no issues returning the gesture, nor does he deny her the affections such as hugs that she seeks out whenever she feels so compelled. She leans into his gestures, like the soft ruffles of her hair or a hand on her shoulder.

Omega leans her head back to shoot him a look, not pausing their even stride down the road as she does so. She gazes up at him with that too-often-buried innocence that has shone through in the midst of feeding the tooka kitten, unable to resist its charm like any other kid her age.

He squeezes her hand just a little tighter, mindful not to hold on too tight and risk causing her discomfort. He smiles, allowing for a brief moment of weakness to overtake him, a second of sentimentality.

She smiles back, a smile meant just for him, and he swears his chest clenches, a vice grip yanking at his heart strings.

Hunter wonders, every day of his life and with stark gratitude, how he got so lucky that he gets to live this odd little life he’s carved out with his family… his kid.

Yeah, his kid.

Chapter Text

If anyone had told Hunter so much as a year ago, the sergeant of the only squad in the Grand Army of the Republic with a record so flawless as to boast one-hundred percent rate of success, trained to kill another man with one of his thumbs alone, that he would soon spend his evenings putting his big-little sister - his child - to bed, he would have laughed in their face and called them a liar outright. Might’ve even smacked ‘em, just to make sure they were still of sound mind, and hadn’t completely lost it.

He is a machine, bread to fight and neutralize. Bread to cheat death. Trained to resist torture that falls under the category of a Galactic war crime, and (though he has never and does not ever intend to use it, nor does he like having that knowledge) administer that same level of torture.

He can count on one hand the amount of children he ever spoke to or even vaguely interacted with before Omega came into his life. Their squad was usually sent to do what nobody else was capable of, and missions like those rarely involved kids. Recon, search and destroy, asset recovery. Once or twice, plain and simple assassination; he tries not to think too hard about those. He never liked those.

And yet, here he is, standing beside the ladder to the gunner’s mount, hands on his hips like an impatient port attendant waiting for the last man to board the transport. In the crook of one arm, a blanket. The other, Omega’s trooper doll.

“Wrecker, c’mon, stop riling her up,” he frowns, shaking his head, glaring at his younger brother across the hull.

Over by the closed doors leading into the cockpit of the Marauder, dressed down in his civvies and swinging Omega around over his shoulders, Wrecker flashes him a grin at the same time as he jostles his little sister around on his back again. “It’s still early, Sarge! Little longer won’t hurt!” he insists, and Omega giggles when Wrecker hoists her up to sit on his left shoulder, her head nearly brushing the durasteel hull ceiling.

She comes so close to hitting it that Hunter feels his eyes widen beyond his control, a surge of dread passing through him. “Wrecker, put her down, please,” he admonishes through clenched teeth, enunciating on the ‘please’ for all it’s worth. He’s getting tired, now, and he knows he shouldn’t let that affect his tone, but Omega’s sleep-cycle routine is always an elaborate affair as is. “Cid wants us back in the morning to pick up some new work. We should take advantage of a night we can actually spend docked.”

That, and Omega is a growing child. Tech has been sure to remind them all of that on multiple occasions, and constantly stresses the fact that she needs some semblance of regulated sleep. While the rest of them don’t disagree, and have been making an effort to enforce this, Wrecker’s own childish energy combined with Omega’s lack of willingness to get rest knowing that she may miss out on anything at all can be a challenge.

Hunter isn’t really in the mood for a challenge.

“Just a few more minutes?” Omega tries, adding to Wrecker’s silently pleading gaze, eyes pinched with an eager expectancy.

“Might I remind you all that a few more minutes often becomes a great deal more than the requested amount of time?” Tech, silently working away at the navicomputer at the center of all of the commotion, chimes in with a sort of impartial air, though still conspicuously taking Hunter’s side. He turns to watch his siblings by the cockpit, appearing loosely unamused. “It would not be prudent to waste much more time and risk only indulging in sleep once you have exhausted yourself.”

Omega’s shoulders sag some, and she glares at him with narrowed eyes, non-menacing but giving it an attempt nonetheless, and presses her lips into a thin line. “It’ll only be a few minutes this time, promise-“ she huffs, and Hunter can see the steam slowly seeping out of her, a look he knows all too well. She’s plenty tired already, but she’s deathly persistent, he’ll give her that.

“Kid, we’re not gonna be up that much longer either-“ Hunter tries, balling up the blanket under his arm and shaking his head. It’s not a lie.

But instead of aiding to convince her, she is quick to utilize this as fuel for her argument. “So then a few more minutes won’t hurt!” she flashes him a timid grin, and Wrecker rumbles a laugh, shaking her leg in affectionate amusement.

Tech makes some noise of indignant skepticism. “I will be up for a while still,” he huffs. “I am taking first watch, and I have work to do.”

Omega hardly waits for him to finish speaking, eyes bulging out her skull. “I can help you with your work!”

Hunter runs a hand down his face, pointedly avoiding his brother’s piercing gaze when Tech turns to shoot him a humorless expression.

Just as much as he can’t quite figure out how to consistently combat it, Hunter cannot figure out for the life of him where this stubborn attitude towards her sleep cycle came from in the first place, either. He had chalked it up to that same desire to avoid being left out at first, and he knows that it certainly plays a role in her behavior. She’s curious, and bubbling, and that is to be expected. It’s encouraged, more often than not. But he has long suspected there to be some kind of underlying issue; a deeper meaning for it that she does not wish to share, if she’s even aware of it herself.

She has nightmares, from time to time, but those have gotten much better than they had been after escaping Kamino, and they have a routine capable of opposing the potentially… intense results of such an unpleasant experience. It’s been quite some time since she last woke him up to climb into his bunk after a bad dream, and he considers that a good sign. It doesn’t explain her plainly visible apprehension this evening in particular, and he can feel the concern starting to swirl in his gut, unwanted and perplexing.

“Y’know, kid, I bet that tooka is off sleepin’ already, after that big meal it had earlier,” he says, opting for a different sort or approach. At the very least, this gets her to look at him, identical bright brown eyes locking with his own in brief bewilderment. “You might see it again while we’re out to Cid’s tomorrow, but if you don’t get any sleep, then it’ll be no dice. Can’t have you nodding off at the parlor.”

Eyeing him as if to discern his purpose, his angle, - smart kid that she is - Omega taps Wrecker’s shoulder in the gesture that Hunter has learned means she wants to be let down. Wrecker hesitates for a few seconds, blinking at the mention of the tooka, before delicately grabbing her sides with either hand to slide her off top of him and over his chest. “You saw a tooka today?” he asks, half-shouting. “Where? When? Wha- I didn’t know there ‘re tookas on Ord Mantell!”

“In the street! He was hungry so we followed him,” she informs him, and Hunter can’t help the way his features soften, tension slowly leaving his body, at the proud lilt to her voice, a pleased look on her face. Nearly a one-eighty from her clear unhappiness a second earlier. He makes a mental note of his success, filing it away for later. “I fed him the rest of my ration bar and Hunter’s, too,” she adds, taking a few steps back towards the gunner’s mount once Wrecker releases her.

Tech opens his mouth as if to say something, likely prepared to make a point of mentioning that ration bars are not a standard component of a tooka’s diet, but decides against it, swiveling his chair to fully face the navicomputer again and resigning himself to his work.

“A’right kid, you and me are gonna go out an’ find that tooka again tomorrow, got it?” Wrecker rumbles, an awfully serious tone to his voice, brows creased in careful concentration as he leans down to be eye level with her, clamping a hand over her shoulder. Thank the Maker, he seems to have forgotten his previous endeavor, egging on Omega and assisting her attempts to resist rest.

Omega nods, matching his sincerity with a resolve of her own. “I think he liked me,” she declares, grinning and wringing her hands in front of her stomach. “He seemed really happy to get fed! Maybe I can sense him again, and we can bring him some more to eat…”

“Can’t do that if you’re tired,” Hunter hastens to interject, grabbing her full attention, holding open his arm with trooper dangling off of it in what he hopes is a welcoming gesture.

By the way Omega inches towards him, swaying a little while she hobbles over, that works, too. “…Yeah, I’m… a little tired now,” she admits, sighing.

In a movement that he recognizes as painfully deliberate, she slumps into his side, into his waiting arm, and presses her face into his ribs; she is telling him that she is exhausted, and she yields. She’s ready for her sleep cycle, even if she isn’t exactly happy about it. Her protests die, and with it, her energy. And although this position cannot possibly be comfortable, she stays there regardless, as if burrowing, and Hunter squeezes the arm around her middle, sliding her trooper doll into his hand. He offers it for her to take, tapping her shoulder, and she does, holding the doll to her chest.

Wrecker, ever alert and with a keen sense for Omega’s needs without really needing to try, takes this as a cue to clear the area, if only long enough for her to settle down.

“See ya tomorrow kid,” he says, in a voice akin to quiet; or perhaps, better to say Wrecker’s unique interpretation of such a thing. He is hardly ever truly quiet. But he puts in the effort, and Hunter has always appreciated that much.

Omega mumbles back some incoherent response, - if words at all - turning her head to press her cheek to Hunter’s side and face her older brother. “G’night,” she answers, muffled and stifled by a small yawn that she evidently attempts to force down. The beeping of the navicomputer, and whatever it is that has Tech busy at present, whirs like white noise in the background. Hunter wonders, equivocally and with all the sensitive mental responses triggered, in part, by his heightened senses, if that sort of sound lulls Omega to sleep some. She must be used to it, by now, a constant sound courtesy of the life with which they’ve been faced.

Wrecker leans forward with a long arm to tap their younger brother, poor Tech already engulfed by his task as if he had never been distracted, only vaguely aware of his surroundings to a degree necessary for a soldier. Appropriately, he jumps a little in his chair, whipping his head around to hurriedly locate the source of this disruption. Hunter observes them in amusement, silently appreciative of the gestures by Wrecker to move the ‘bedtime’ process along.

Glancing between Wrecker and the pair of them beside the gunner’s mount, Tech’s expression softens considerably at the sight of Omega’s onset sleepiness. That look. At least, that’s what Hunter calls it in his own mind, though he can guarantee that Tech will smack him upside the head should he ever dare say it aloud. In truth, he’s still not sure he’s over the shock brought on by the look. But he does not hate it. The complete opposite, truly.

“Rest well, Miss Omega,” he says, pushing his goggles up his nose and offering a small nod before hoisting himself up out of the chair, making a point of turning off the console as he goes. “I will see you in the morning.”

“Night, Tech,” Omega smiles, blinking as if to instinctually attempt to rid herself of the oncoming feeling of a sleep. Hunter feels a warmth in his chest. He may not have found the mangy tooka particularly ‘adorable’, but the same can’t be said for Omega. She is adorable.

What a hardened soldier he is now.

Whilst Tech and Wrecker shuffle into the cockpit, Tech mumbles something to the latter that Hunter could hear if he wanted, but chooses to tune out in favor of giving his kid his full attention. Though he is aware of Echo greeting them from his spot in the cockpit, drawn away from whatever it is he was doing, only to be swiftly brought into the new topic of conversation. It must be interesting enough, if even Wrecker seems to have been fully immersed in what’s being said, and despite his suspicious curiosity, Hunter still ignores it with the mental note to get caught up once Omega’s asleep.

He doesn’t wait for them to disappear fully to turn towards the gunner’s mount and usher Omega along with him. And - thank the Maker - she doesn’t fight back. He shifts the blanket to lay over his shoulder and leans with one hand against the side whilst Omega climbs the first few rungs of the short ladder before pausing to toss her trooper doll up onto her sleep mat already unfurled and laid flat against the floor. Her pillow is in place, Lula sat beside it, and he’s gone ahead and turned on the string of lights hanging from over the rear window for her. Everything in its place.

She scrambles up the rest of the way like some sort of animal, pulling herself over to the mat in a quick crawl before turning back to face Hunter, bright brown eyes waiting for him to follow with the blanket. Damn this kid. He can’t help but think, in the back of his mind and with a self-assured sort of pride, that there was only one thing Crosshair had been right about; Hunter’s gone soft. And he couldn’t care any less. They all have by now, to different degrees. But he’s proud to be ‘soft’, for his kid and his kid alone. How could he be anything else?

The sergeant clears part of the ladder in two rungs, skipping a step in between and halting halfway up, positioning his feet in such a way that he won’t fall backwards. There isn’t all that much room in the gunner’s mount, especially for two people, and he won’t be staying long (probably). Besides, it is best to give her the space she needs to settle down comfortably.

“Alright, kid,” he sighs, raising one eyebrow when he feels that small smile tugging at the corners of his lips again. “It’s way passed twenty-one hundred now. You ready to get some shut-eye?”

Omega stares at him for a moment before she starts at fidgeting with her hands. “Yeah, but… you mean it? Me and Wrecker can look for the tooka tomorrow?” she asks him, looking hopeful.

Hunter reaches forward with one hand to lay it atop her head, eliciting a tiny squeak from the little girl at the physical contact. She leans into it in an instant, smiling back. “Promise,” he replies firmly, giving her hair a short ruffle. “But it’s as I said. Only if you go to bed.” And he does mean that. No rest, no mission. That goes for all of them, and even though he won’t say it for fear of making her feel isolated, it applies to her most of all. “You’ve got to be alert at all times, soldier,” he reminds her.

She nods against his hand, serious.

One thing that Hunter has learned in his time caring for Omega, is that children tend to put great value on things that he would otherwise consider to be insignificant. Feeding wild tooka kittens, for example. If he were in that situation they had found themselves in today, along the road with a hungry, tiny tooka scouring around for food, and Omega hadn’t been with him, nor did he live with her influence - and what an awful though that is - he probably would have gone on by without paying it any mind. But Omega, set on helping others and naturally drawn to animals, could do all but ignore him.

The idea of possibly getting to see him again, and feed him, and provide him with help, is something she is not willing to mess with. A freedom she is not willing to lose. A task that she is greatly looking forward to, more so that whatever it is that Cid is going to tell them to do in the morning. He can already imagine, without doubt, how Omega will behave come time for them to depart for the parlor; likely disinterested in the job, eager to get it over with and go. Prepared to find the tooka, if not already trying to sense it.

Her childlike wonder, and her outlook on life. It’s refreshing. Endearing.

And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t protect that.

He’ll be damned if he doesn’t protect his kid.

“Mmmkay,” Omega hums, yawning a second time, unable to suppress it before it makes its way out. She slowly settles back to lie down, grabbing Lula in one hand and tucking the soft plush under her head, between her messy hair and the pillow. She retrieves her trooper doll next, tucking it next to her, and pulls her knees up to her chest as if to sleep curled up in a tight coil. As usual. He knows that when he comes to wake her in the morning, she will be quite the opposite, sprawled out and pillow discarded.

Hunter pulls the blanket off his shoulder and gives it a good shake to flatten out the corners. He leans over the side of the gunner’s mount, edging over the rung of the ladder, sure to plant his feet, and as the blanket over her. It flutters down over her shoulders, elevated by her knees, and the ends of her toes stick out at the end. If only they had larger blankets to offer, to cover her entirely; this is the best one they’ve got nowadays, the only one without any holes and seams that are still in tact, for the most part, in spite of its size. But she never complains, bless her soul, and her fingers peak out the top as she pulls the top of the blanket under her chin.

Tucking in the edges by her feet, he breathes a quiet sigh, before running his hand over her hair in a fleeting moment of bliss and peace and domesticity he selfishly wishes could last forever. Yeah, he thinks, involuntarily though never unbidden. This is what he was made for, even if a younger version of himself, only a year or so behind, would have scoffed at the risible idea of tried and true guardianship.

“Do you need anything else?” he murmurs, slipping into a fainter tone as if to match the relative noiselessness of the Marauder.

He can hear his brothers speaking in the cockpit, but he can guarantee that Omega does not, nor is she likely to hear whatever small creature it is that is skittering around outside the ship somewhere in the docking bay. Those sounds, and the sound of her even breathing, her heartbeat, fall only to him, and to his enhanced senses; sounds he is able to tune out, but is acutely aware of on purpose, ever vigilant to his surroundings for the sake of maintaining the security of his squad in ways the rest of them cannot. Hopefully, such a state of calm with remain long enough to allow her to fall asleep without unnecessary disruption.

Omega shakes her head against the pillow. “All good,” she whispers, eyes slipping closed, her bangs falling her face just enough to brush over her eyebrows. Her hair has gotten quite long in the past several months. “Just- can you tell Echo I said g’night?” she adds, cracking one eye open to send him a hasty look that says he must, and she means it.

Hunter chuckles and nods. She really is too much, in the very best way. “Sure thing,” he answers, easing himself slowly down the ladder just enough that his own face is level with hers. “Goodnight ad’ika.”

“G’night Hunta’,” she says, accent thick with oncoming sleep, yawning through it.

And without thought, he leans forward to press a kiss to the side of her head, into her hair, over her temple. She hums in half-conscious contentment, and he feels that warmth in his chest swell.

This kid. His kid.

Climbing the rest of the way down the ladder, Hunter feels around for the switch controlling her string lights stuck to the side of the wall with adhesive. His fingers find the switch at the same time that he hits the durasteel floor, and the hull of the ship is reduced only to the lights of the navicomputer and central consoles. His eyes adjust without preamble, and he pulls Omega’s curtain closed carefully over her room, the thin sheet, the only sort of privacy that she’s got.

If a short sigh of relief escapes his nose, he does not pay it any mind. His own blooming comfort is a feeling that he is aware of not only in his chest, behind his heart, but it is present throughout his whole being. As welcome as air and as easy as breathing, a normalcy and domesticity that he has never known before. Before his deployment from Kamino, before the battlefield, before the end of the war; before - dare he think it - parenthood. Before Omega. Before her presence in his life, filling a hole in his heart that he never really knew was there, but that was in dire need of filling all the same.

Before this. All of this.

Before his kid.

Before his little girl.

Before, dare he think it, his daughter.

The thought sends a pang through his chest, squeezing at his heart, and soon as it was here, this warmth, this odd kind of perfection, it is gone, snuffed out by a single idea that occurs without his say. Out of his control. A thought not at all unbidden. That is, the idea of his daughter. The truth that she is his daughter. But the thought that comes with it, creeping up his spine like an indoumodo kouhun. Slimy and chilling, whining for attention. Pushing passed his peace to take a hold of his thoughts.

Oh, how dare he think it.

Chapter Text

“Hunter? Have you heard a word that I have said?”

The sergeant turns his head up to look at Tech, visibly aggravated and arms crossed tight over his chest in the pilot’s seat of the cockpit. Datapad in his lap, illuminating his face with a slim blue glow, reflecting idly off his goggles in a slight glare. His younger brother’s waiting gaze bores into his soul, mouth slightly agape as he awaits a response from Hunter, expected and clearly displeased, already knowing the answer, yet wanting to hear it from the orbak’s mouth.

“Yes,” Hunter replies, clipped.

No. The real answer is no.

Tech rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and lifts the datapad only to turn around and outstretch his hand towards Hunter, a silent demand that he take it. Hunter wordlessly obliges, nearly fumbling the exchange in all of his lack of paying any real mind to what is going on in front of him, resulting in an exasperated huff from his brother and a second shake of the head, but nothing more to entertain his distant presence.

Swiveling his own chair beside Tech’s to better face the viewport of the Marauder and rather plainly not make any further eye contact with his silently scolding companion, Hunter grips at the datapad harder than he needs to. He has no excuse as to why he is distracted; none that he is willing to share upfront, that is. Though, in his defense, this is Tech’s watch, not his. He should not be up right now. And even if it has only been mere minutes that Tech has had him occupied up passed the beginning of his sleep cycle, he has - unfortunately - deluded himself into feeling as though hours have gone by.

It feels petulant to have this sort of complaint. To let his impatience get the better of him. But for the first time in a very long while now, he is actually desperate to find his way to his bunk and pass out for the night, if only for the sake of chasing away the sudden onslaught of intrusive thoughts that have begun to distantly but effectively ruin his personal bliss from the moment he closed Omega’s curtains to right now, as he watches a stray irling shudder by the outside of the ship under the shroud of darkness brought about by Ord Mantell’s early evening sunsets.

“You are clearly bothered by something,” Tech says, ever observant and perfectly blunt. Hunter is thankful for the fact that his brother does not dance around issues. It makes it that much easier to move passed them, especially because he, in most cases, doesn’t pry. “I will not bother to ask you what, seeing as I do not anticipate that you are willing to share,” he adds, raising a brow. “However, that does not make the matter of our med-kit stocks any less critical.”

That must be what it is that Tech has handed him; a medical grocery list. Yeah, alright, that is important. He glances down at the datapad and scans over the long list of items that Tech has taken down. “This is a lot,” he mutters, chewing at his bottom lip, unable to hide a small frown. “What happened to everything we had? I thought we were doing okay.”

Tech tilts his head to one side and adjusts his goggles with a serious expression. “I would liked to say it was culmination of recent missions keeping us rather busy and often requiring bacta or otherwise after the fact, however much of it is a result of the last few jobs we have taken, including our detour to the Kaldar Trinary system,” and he frowns, too. “Omega and Phee specifically did not walk away without quite a few cuts and bruises on that particular… excursion.”

Oh, Hunter remembers their ‘excursion’ to Skara Nal just fine. He does not need a reminder right now, on top of everything else.

That is to say, Phee has not exactly proven herself to be a… choice ally, thus far.

“Right,” he grumbles, tossing the datapad back to Tech - who scowls when he catches it, a gesture that Hunter chooses to put off - and rubs a hand over his forehead. He can feel an oncoming headache pulsing behind his eyes. Wonderful. “So what, you wanna make a run before we leave for the next job?” he asks, falling back against the headrest of the co-pilot’s seat and staring out the viewport into a black night otherwise tinted blue, a cloudy, gloomy sort of sky littered with mechanical pollution.

There’s a pause, a beat that passes in complete and utter silence, before Tech audibly inhales. “That would be ideal,” he replies curtly, sounding almost anxious. “We must prioritize being properly stocked in the event that something is to happen. That being said, I have… run the numbers, as it were, and I worry that we don’t have enough credits to acquire all that we need,” he adds, and Hunter can hear his leg start to bounce.

Tech has always had a few ‘nervous habits’, ever since they were cadets. Rambling about anything or nothing in particular, picking at chipped paint on his armor, tapping his fingers against his thigh, bouncing his leg (or both) while seated; just to name a few. Sometimes, they aren’t so much of nervous habits, and more so a means of stimulation in moments during which he feels the need to be doing something, whether that be his hand tinkering with some odd contraption for the hell of it, or any other little fidget just to keep himself moving.

His brother’s mind has always gone too fast for the rest of them to keep up with completely. He knows that sometimes Tech himself is practically running to stay on course. That’s his enhancement, his genius. A part of him that makes him who he is, and that Hunter appreciates him for. But he has noticed that Tech tends to worry more, in the past several months, since Omega’s force sensitivity first came to light. It is a sentiment that they share among the lot of them, he and his brothers, but Tech has never been the apprehensive type.

If their current supplies, or lack thereof, and their situation regarding credits, makes him anxious by any means, than Hunter suddenly feels as though it should make him nervous, too.

Inwardly, he scoffs at himself. As if he isn’t already.

“Y-yeah… yeah alright,” he mumbles, turning his head to face Tech. “We’ll go to Cid’s and you take whatever credits you think we can spare to stock up on what we might need the most. Bacta, med-patches. Don’t worry about the more specific treatments for now, just get what you can that’ll do the most,” he instructs him, trying to sound confident, in spite of the fact that it is a less than ideal plan of action, seeing as Tech is always the most helpful when it comes down to handling Cid.

Anything to put their minds at ease, he supposes. Better to be safe than to lament the medical cache they don’t have when they need it.

“Right,” Tech nods, drawing his lips into a thin line. “I wish you the best of luck with Cid, then,” he adds, clearly having had the same thought.

All Hunter can do is laugh. Insincere and exhausted; one more thing.

He need take his sleep cycle before he starts to spiral into nothingness. It is skulking nearer.

“Are you… okay to take your watch now?” he tries, aiming for something not too indicative of his lassitude, and the growing consternation causing the words to catch in his throat for a moment. Echo and Wrecker have already retired, and with Tech and Wrecker responsible for watches this cycle, Hunter is anticipating an easy sleep, if he can clear his head of this lingering feeling of fearful inhibition that chases after him since putting Omega to bed. “Unless you’ve got more to report-“

“I do not. That was all,” Tech murmurs, eyeing Hunter with an all too familiar skepticism. And yet, he still does not look for an explanation, clearly satisfied to let Hunter deal with his own issues on his own terms, whether that means confiding in Tech or not.

Maybe at a later time, when he has the energy to articulate anything more than he already has.

Hunter nods, pushing himself up from the chair and bringing a hand up to rub absentmindedly at a dull ache in his chest, right between his left shoulder and where his heart is. “See you in the morning then.”

“Likewise. Goodnight, Sarge.”

He takes this as a dismissal, - not that he needs one, but he would feel guilty to leave Tech with unfinished business to handle alone - and trudges out of the cockpit with a crooked posture. He feels the thought, slimy, chilling, and gnawing at his ear, uninvited. Persistent. And oh so terribly close to getting what it wants: his undivided attention. He despises the idea of giving it what it wants, of letting it get the better of him. He does not need this, nor does he want this. He knows that this… vile thought- it isn’t true. He KNOWS this. He will not entertain it- he won’t-

Physically shaking himself off, Hunter passes through the cockpit doors and prays that Tech isn’t watching him. He can imagine how he probably looks, right now, with sagging shoulders as his mind grapples for purchase on the precipice of sleep. Pitiable and tired. If even Tech is able to tell that he is off in his own world, fighting some unspoken battle that he is seeming to lose, then it must be visible on his face, or in his eyes. Wonderful.

It could be worse, he thinks, as he pushes himself through the arched entryway between the two components of the ship and listens to the doors whirring shut behind him. The hull is deathly still. Echo and Wrecker have no doubt fallen well into sleep by now. He glances passed the navicomputer at the refresher by the gunner’s mount. Free, of course, wide open and waiting. Perfect. He’ll splash himself with a bit of water out the sanistream-sink, snap out of whatever the hell this is - a mild anxiety attack, his mind unhelpfully manages to supply, but not close enough to his total consciousness for it to matter - and then throw himself onto his bunk.

Over and done with, and back to how he should be; stable.

He doesn’t really clock himself stumbling towards the refresher, but he knows he’s doing it in spite of his onset lightheaded-ness, a hinderance he tries to dismiss. It will pass any moment now. He despises this feeling, and how quickly it is overtaking him, ever so slightly nondescript, fingers halfway to numb for no reason other than to make his life difficult. But he makes it into the refresher and habitually slams the panel to close the door behind him and turn on the light, and that has got to count for something.

He more or less throws himself at the sink, not that there is much of a distance between it and where he starts out in such a compacted space, and clings to the edge with one hand. One deep breath in, and he feels the headache begin to fade as quickly as it came now that he’s in solitude.

With the other hand, he spins the nozzle for the sink, cold water running down in a fixed stream, a neutral pressure. He cups his hand underneath it and allows it to collect for three seconds - no longer, no shorter - before splashing it in his face.

Maker, it is freezing once it hits his cheeks, over his tattoo, dripping down the skin raised by ink. But the effect is nearly instantaneous, and flawlessly potent.

At the very least, the buzzing in his head dies, the dull ache dissipates entirely.

Better than nothing at all.

Hunter runs a hand over his face and exhales shakily. He feels excess water drip down onto his collar, over his neck, and wipes it away with one finger. His first thought, now that he’s regained total control of himself and picked up full feeling in his fingers, is that this could have been worse. He has dealt with this before, a number of times he can count on one hand, but before nonetheless. He is, in some backwards, twisted way, thankful for that, at least, since he knows how to identify and ‘destroy’, so to speak, but that does not make it any less deplorable.

His second thought, in rather hasty succession, is that of the cause of this simmering anxiety eating away at him. He may not be the best at compartmentalizing his emotions in the way that Tech or Crosshair have always been, but he’s cognizant enough to know what it is that elicits such a reaction as this with so little effort. Maybe it is because alertness is a part of who he is, but he has a substantial grip on his own deliberation, and that is better than… not. Better than losing himself with no way out again.

Omega.

No, no, it isn’t her fault. It’s not- she’s not- she is not to blame for… this. He would never- will never- this is all him. ‘This’ being… how he is. His anxieties and otherwise. The foolish, baseless insecurities that, without his damn need or desire, sometimes find their way passed his personal defenses and… get the better of him, so to speak.

In ways that he cannot control. Such as now. Lightheaded, numb, afraid, stumbling like a drunkard and just as wary. And for what?

For Omega.

His kid.

His daughter.

The panic had started small; his heart skipping a beat when she screamed his name in terror, or he turned around and suddenly, she’s no longer standing next to him. Then it got worse, on Bracca, when, as swiftly as snuffing out a flame, Cad Bane took with him Hunter’s reason for living. At first, he hadn’t believed it. He thought it to be some awful nightmare upon waking up against Wrecker’s chest and being hoisted into the Marauder. But it only took him a few seconds to come to, and to realize with it, that he could not hear Omega. He could not hear her breathing, or her heartbeat. She was gone.

The memory makes him nauseous.

Taking a deep breath in and out through his nose, and his mouth, Hunter stares down as his hands as his keeps himself grounded by the cold edges of the sink under his palms. Biting the inside of his cheek, he tunes everything else out and he listens-

There, in an instant, he can hear it. Like a bright red beeping beacon in a deserted hangar.

Omega. Her breathing, markedly audible above their brothers’. Steady, metrical. Her heartbeat, just as much so. Present, consistent, even, the ideal resting pace. On her mat, in her room. Exactly where he left her some fifteen-odd minutes ago. Exactly where she is meant to be. Safe, inside the ship. He’s overreacting over… over something that is not happening. Everything it fine. He can HEAR her. He can hear it, pulsing in his eardrums. Peaceful, and oh so awfully perfect. Everything is fine.

So what the hell is wrong with him?

Letting go of the sink, Hunter falls back against the ‘fresher door. Not that he isn’t already practically touching it, with now small it is. But leaning back makes a huge difference whilst compared to leaning forward. Leaning forward contributes to the horrid feeling he’s got in his gut that warns him how close he may be to emptying his stomach into the basin.

Everything is fine. He’s a soldier. A hardened soldier. A sergeant. Trained for worse than this. If he ever melted like this, fell apart, on the battlefield, he would have been decommissioned before he knew what was happening, if he lived to see the other side.

Granted, he wasn’t a… parent- back then. A father. He didn’t have a kid.

He is now. He does now.

His kid. Yeah, Omega is his kid, his daughter, and Hunter doesn’t deny that. She came stumbling into their lives - his life - lonely and naive, unsure and in need of a family. She sought them out, looking for that family in them. And what kind of a monster would be be if he ultimately told her no? This bright-eyed little girl with a heart of gold and a willpower that he hasn’t even seen in soldiers four times her size. She wanted a family, she pursued him in the hopes of gaining exactly that in her brothers than she had only ever known from a distance.

For some reason, she’s given him a very special place in all of this. She relies on him, first and foremost. Puts her faith in him time and again. Looks up to him, asks his permission for anything at all. She squeezed her way into his heart, and although he has done so without much grace, he has approached it with all the willingness of an experienced guardian regardless.

That is to say, readily. Wanting. His kid. His daughter.

Maybe in another world he would have chalked it up to duty; no matter what, he would be her older brother. But it is more than that; even then, he would be lying. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

How much of this has been said… out loud is limited to certain extents. In other words, he has never called her ‘daughter’ outright, but not without good reason. He wants her to be the one to take things at her own pace, purely for the sake of avoiding overwhelming her as she is still learning to navigate her emotions, on top of her connection to the force, now that she is free from the suppression of her earliest childhood. But perhaps that is a part of the beauty of it. The natural ebb and flow, and the gradual development of a bond that he knows is not merely a dream every time that Omega meets his eyes and tells him that she loves him, too.

That being said, there is another layer, deep-seated and most often buried. The cause of… this. The reason that he is in the ‘fresher, heart in his throat, unprovoked. Meant only for him; Omega can never know, nor can his brothers. It is his burden alone to bear.

Sometimes, he suspects that Echo is onto it, as if it were written on his forehead in ink as dark as his tattoo. Among all of the teasing and jabs, lighthearted as they are, he wonders if it is sometimes sincere, when Echo throws him a look, and a series of remarks that he swears he’s heard one thousand times over by now.

‘You tell her you love her and call her ad’ika. You’re becoming quite the ol’ dad, Sarge. She definitely doesn’t mind it. What’s holding you back?’

Yeah, he does do that, - tell her he loves her - because he does. She deserves to know and she deserves to hear it. It is entirely unconditional, no strings attached. Just like the rest of his brothers, both in his relationship with them, and hers. They’re a family. They all love each other. He doesn’t even need to think about it. It’s natural, and it’s a promise he knows he will never break.

He calls her ‘ad’ika’ because he finds that he appreciates the culture from which the term is derived, and the specific connotation that fits their unique familial situation more than most.

Not that Hunter’s ever learned much about Mando’a, or Mandalorian culture, but he’s got a small vocabulary tucked away in his mind, taught to him and his brothers by kind old Ninety-Nine here and there when they were cadets. The basics, like buir, vod, a few ‘choice words’ he can throw around if he really wants to. And, of course, ad’ika. Kid. It means kid, with a stronger implication. As in, it’s a term often used by parents towards their children, meant for those most special to you, in the same way that Omega is special to him.

Mandalorians - from what he has come to understand, that is - place a strong importance on the concept that family is more than blood. And even though they do technically have the same blood running through their veins, thus the idea of the clones that they are, Omega is, for all intents and purposes, technically adopted. It doesn’t make her any less than if she were his own flesh, but Mandalorian culture honors that truth better than most if not all of the rest of the Galaxy. And he appreciates that.

One day, when he can muster the gall, he’ll explain that sentiment to Omega in full, rather than just to say that it is synonymous with ‘kid’.

And that does beg the question, then, why not? What IS holding him back?

In one word, problematic and shameful: fear.

“Hey uh… someone in there?”

Echo’s voice, low to nearly a whisper, distinguished in Hunter’s mind by the recognizable inflection of a reg’s general tone, pulls him abruptly out of his racing thoughts. That, and two soft but mechanical knocks - a sort of clink-ing - that can only be a scomp against the outside of the refresher door.

Clearing his throat and pushing his shoulder back, forcing himself to project some level of composure, Hunter stands up straight, away from his end of the door. “Yeah, er, yes, just finishing up-“ he replies, voice forcefully even. Echo doesn’t need to see him like this right now, not for any reason other than the fact that it’s getting later with every minute passing on the chrono, however many it’s been. If he couldn’t find the words for Tech, he definitely won’t find them now for Echo. “Sorry- be out in just a second now-“

“No rush,” Echo answers, and the carelessness in his tone suggests that he means it, and that Hunter hasn’t given himself away. “I’ll just keep poundin’ on the wall until you open up,” he jokes, smug expression audible.

For a brief moment, Hunter almost smiles at the simplicity of it. A cutting respite in the midst of his childish, foolhardy panic. An interruption, a little extra grounding. “Yeah alright alright,” he grumbles through the barrier between them, taking another deep breath, and forcing a neutral expression to settle across his features before he dares to press the panel and open the door. “Could be worse,” he add, keeping his voice low as the door slides open, mindful of Omega sleeping only a few feet away. “I could be Wrecker. You know he takes his sweet old time.”

He is met with Echo’s figure, standing in a neat parade rest by default, and illuminated only on his right by the blue and red lights of the navicomputer. He dons a smirk fitting of his humor. Raising one brow, he asks “Should I tell him you said that? He might jostle you around good for that one.”

“Should I tell him you agree?” Hunter quips back, challenging.

“I never said I did.”

“You never said you didn’t, either.”

This actually gets a light chuckle out of Echo, and Hunter appreciates that, too. Everything is fine. He can see as much in front of him. Echo would not be laughing were it not. He has no reason to spiral out of control. It’s fine. He is fine. Omega. Omega is fine. Hunter is just tired, that’s all-

So why can he still feel it, humming behind his forehead?

“Shouldn’t you be in the bunk, Sarge? A bit hypocritical of you to be crackin’ down on the kid’s sleep cycles only to be late for your own,” Echo inquires, and Hunter wishes he hadn’t as soon as the question leaves his lips. Now he’s got to come up with an excuse, other than the fact that Tech was ‘keeping him’, as if that had lasted this long when, really, he’s been in the refresher, like a coward, almost the whole time.

He makes the decision to try and switch gears, and steer the focus away from what he’s doing right now. “Cracking down? Who said I was doing that?” he tries, and Echo laughs shortly again, so it must work.

“Surprisingly, Tech. He said she was giving you some trouble tonight, and that Wrecker was an accomplice. Though he denied it,” Echo explains, waving his flesh hand with a sort of nonchalance. “Though, you are right. She needs to rest. Sometimes I worry she isn’t getting enough of it.”

Yes, perfect. Talk about Omega. Not him. Though, he sends her a silent apology, using her bedtime antics as a means of escape, even though nobody will ever know. “You and me both,” he nods, slowly. “But I think the so-called cracking down worked. She cooperated after a few minutes.”

And look at her now, passed out, fast asleep. Like a block of permacrete. Breathing even. Heartbeat steady.

Echo shrugs, before gesturing towards the refresher. “It’s still a learning curve. But do you mind if I uh-“

Hunter smiles sheepishly, and shuffles out of his way. Nearly forgot. “Right. I’ll be getting to the bunks then,” he says quickly, glancing at the curtain over the gunner’s mount as he side-steps to clear his brother’s path. “Night.”

Waving noncommittally by way of a ‘goodnight’ on its own, Echo slips into the ‘fresher, and as unceremoniously as he stumbled back here from the cockpit, Hunter is alone in the muted darkness of the hull.

Best not to waste time idling, when his thoughts can get the better of him, vulnerable and doing nothing at all. But he cannot stop himself from glancing towards the gunner’s mount again. The white noise of the ship - the white noise of his entire life - drones in his ears. He can pick out what matters among it. Still… maybe it would help… if he checks on her. Just once, a quick peek through the curtain to make sure she’s sleeping alright. To see her with his own eyes. It may help to calm his nerves, and the sooner he can, the sooner he’ll manage to fall asleep for himself.

It won’t hurt.

Hunter grabs at the edge of the ladder with one hand, and pinches the bottom of the curtain with the other. To avoid making unnecessary noise and risk waking her up, he doesn’t pull it back all the way. Rather, he lifts up the curtain between his fingers to gaze in from below. He wonders too, offhandedly, if she can sense his presence through the force even in sleep. All the more reason to remain cautious and gentle.

Naturally, Omega is exactly where he left her. Her body has relaxed, somewhat, no longer coiled up so tight, blanket lying loosely over her chest, her legs lamely uncovered. Her face is peaceful, and visibly relaxed, cheek pressed flush against the pillow. Lula has fallen behind her head, draped over by the ends of her curls at the back of her neck. Her chest rises and falls in a pattern, eliciting deep breaths between tiny snores; nothing in comparison to all the noise Wrecker makes in his sleep.

Everything is fine. Just as he suspected. His hearing, his senses, would not have betrayed him. He had no reason to be so worried, so concerned. On top of this, he can hear Wrecker, likewise asleep, in the bunkroom. Tech in the cockpit, tinkering with something or another. Echo, moving around in the refresher somewhere by the sink. Nothing is happening that shouldn’t be. Nothing is happening at all, really.

Mentally, he is kicking himself. What is he so afraid of?

Everything is fine, now. ‘But what,’ some awful voice that sounds dangerously like Crosshair sneers and snickers behind his ear, ‘what happens when it’s not anymore?’

Hunter drops the curtain and pushes himself away from the gunner’s mount, suddenly hit with a sense of tunnel vision as he whips his head to his left. Bunkroom. He is going to the bunkroom, and he is taking his sleep cycle, and he is not, NOT going to start losing his MIND in the middle of the hull, at the bottom of Omega’s room. He bites at the inside of his cheek, harder this time, and breathes heavy through his nose, once, twice, three times, before essentially marching to the bunkroom with a defiance towards an issue of his own making.

He clears the gap in barely three steps, but every last one of them feels like his ankles are weighed down by a force of gravity stronger than it should be. Echo left the door open, which does serve to make his life easier, at least for a moment. Wrecker’s heaving breathing is something that he chooses to tune out in favor of hoisting himself up into the empty bunk about his brother and finally, finally, with a firm grip to pull himself up the side and a careful foot on an empty space between Wrecker’s leg and the bar running up the side, Hunter is on his own bunk.

Laying down flat on his back, he stares up at the ceiling for some ten seconds before promptly squeezing his eyes shut and pressing both of his hands to the side of his face.

Hunter is no stranger to fear. He did not become the soldier that he is without it. Fear is a necessary constituent of not only becoming a soldier at all, but of life itself. It is fundamentally unnatural to live without any fear at all. But it is just as unnatural to live with a fear like this, now, that shakes his soul to the very core and leaves him defenseless. Pathetic.

What’s holding him back? What is he afraid of?

Losing. Losing this. This domestic bliss. This relative time of peace, for once in his life. This time with his family. His time with Omega. Omega. He’s afraid of losing Omega.

And he knows, realistically, that he will always be afraid of losing his kid. His daughter. That… that comes with being a parent. A father. Worry for your child, and all the little things in the Galaxy that can harm them. He’s- he’s OKAY with that aspect of it. At least that’s normal. Logical. Expected. Manageable. But sometimes, that fear is so biting, so unrelenting, even when it has no right to be, and he feels like THIS. This impending sense of doom for something that isn’t even here.

Sometimes, he becomes engrossed in that domestic bliss. This gift from the Galaxy, of which he will never truly be worthy, and he lets his guard down. And he realizes, when the euphoria of civility and normalcy starts to fade into a uniquely beautiful memory near and dear to his heart, ‘What if this doesn’t last?’ That voice, Crosshair’s voice, swimming in his senses, jeering and giggling at him.

‘What if you fail? What if you can’t protect her? Then what?’

And what right does this fear have to try and control him? It doesn’t. He is GOING to protect Omega. No matter what. So why, why does this panic over the IDEA of losing what he loves most, have this power to get the better of him?

And if he begins to panic over things that are not even happening, what use will he be when- if. IF they do? What then?

‘Then you lose,’ imperceptible Crosshair snarls. ‘Then you lose the girl. And you become nothing.’

Hunter presses his hands harder against his face. It’s all he can do to stop himself from physically letting out a growl of frustration. He is screaming inside, screaming for the stupid voice, Crosshair, to shut the fuck up. He has no idea what he’s talking about. And he knows, he knows that blaming the Crosshair in his head is misplaced blame, let alone if he were to blame his real, tangible brother, wherever he is. But what else is he supposed to do, now, when it’s his voice the speaks to life his greatest fears, like a form of high torture? Torture he was never trained to endure.

He’s just tired, he tells himself over and over like offering a sacred prayer. Honest sleep will help, and when he wakes up come morning, it will be like nothing happened at all, past the precious memories of the day’s events spent with his daughter. She’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

Eventually, and without really noticing it at all, Hunter falls asleep in the midst of trying to wholly convince himself that all of this that he says to himself is true.

Chapter Text

Needless to say, Hunter does not get as much sleep as he had hoped.

He spends quite a bit of time staring at the ceiling. He listens to Echo reenter the bunkroom, but he stays very still, determined not to do anything that may trigger another discussion that he doesn’t want to have. If Echo knows he’s awake, then he doesn’t say anything about it.

At some point, he drifts off and rests relatively undisturbed. Other than being stirred awake for a few minutes when Tech and Wrecker switch watches - noticeably off-schedule, no doubt due to Tech losing track of time in the middle of his work - the night is entirely uneventful. But when he is awoken again by the hustle and bustle of the early morning brought on by the fact that Tech and Echo are early to rise as is, and Wrecker is already wide awake, he still feels rather tired.

That being said, when he opens his eyes and immediately recognizes the fact that his heart does not feel like it is going to beat a hole out of his chest, nor does his head ache with the phantom pain of unbridled panic, he takes it as a sign that he must have slept well enough to reset his mentality, as it were. At the very least, he isn’t drowning in utter misery and anxiety in the way that he was evening prior, and the awful little voice behind his ear has left him to his own devices again. That does certainly make a noticeable difference. Everything is fine. They’re fine. His kid is fine; after a moment of registering his own consciousness, he can hear her still asleep in her own room.

And he thinks, for a moment, on the day prior, in better light. Omega and the discovered tooka, and the promise he made to allow her to go looking for it again today in hopes of feeding it some more. A small smile tugs at his lips. She truly is the sweetest little girl.

Nothing to worry about. His daughter is safe. The worst has not occurred.

Now, in this significantly calmer state of being, Hunter pushes himself into a sitting position on top of the bunk. He has to bow his head to avoid smacking it across the ceiling, but he is well used to the precaution by now, and it happens on instinct. He rubs two fingers over his forehead and yawns, noiselessly, without covering his mouth. The stale, recycled air of the Marauder feels vaguely chilled, like it does for some time after Tech has scrubbed the vents. Maybe he did, on his watch last night. No matter the cause, it is a comfortable temperature.

Scanning his eyes over the empty bunkroom, he wonders how long his brothers have all been up for, exactly. He never actually heard Tech and Echo get up, only the afterwards outside the door and down in the cockpit. Technically speaking, they don’t have to be awake this early regardless. Cid expects them to arrive around eleven-hundred, give or take, and even without a chrono to confirm his suspicions that it is earlier than need be, he can tell by his body’s natural register that it hasn’t been long enough since he first finally settled down for his sleep cycle for it to possibly be that late.

Loathe to waste anymore time doing nothing in particular, Hunter swings his legs over the bunk and hops down the few feet between him and the floor in one fluid motion. Landing with a thud, he stretches his arms out in front of him before moving them up to smooth out his hair, undoubtedly sticking up at the back, and sighs heavy through his nose.

Truth be told, oftentimes, he is not looking forward to running a job for Cid. He can count on one hand how many the squad have done that actually played out as they were supposed to, in comparison to the dozens they’ve run by now that took some sort of undesirable turn. Not that the battlefield had ever been anymore predictable, but that was an expected risk, whereas the near-death experiences brought about by running another woman’s errands are not, nor are they necessary. Most of the time, they are entirely preventable, yet occur nonetheless.

But it is something to do, first, and second, it is their only source of income. To need an income at all is still a concept Hunter isn’t sure he’s used to; in the army, he was provided with everything essential and that’s all he needed. If he wanted anything more, he could ask, and he would either have received, or been laughed at. And then it was over.

Of course, civilian life isn’t like that at all. They’ve got to earn all of their own credits to buy all of their own supplies. If Tech’s report last night about their current lack of available medical care on top of their being low on credits means anything, it’s that they need an assignment, regardless of how awful.

Hell, he hasn’t got a problem running another parlor’s food supply again, if it means that his family will have that all-important safety net of a stocked up med-kit.

At least a job like that is less likely to kill him.

Trudging out of the bunkroom, he takes to listening and feeling for anything out of the ordinary, as he does after any sleep cycle. It’s more for his own reassurance than anything, because he is most likely to notice it upon waking up anyway, but it will never hurt to be careful.

Of course, there isn’t anything of note to be heard. His brothers talking in the cockpit (be that without minding their volume), Omega’s soft snores in the gunner’s mount, some creature cawing and yelling outside, somewhere in the distance. Here and there the ship creaks, but the engines are off, and therefore silent. The sounds of a morning at port. He’s gotten used to these, and when the familiar buzzing of what has become semi-routine relieves him of some of his lingering stress, he isn’t ashamed of that.

Choosing not to physically check on Omega so as to avoid acting overbearing and allow her some more time to get her rest in, Hunter shuffles by her room and beelines for the front of the ship, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes with one hand. Sliding across the hull as his gaze refocuses, he is suddenly hit with the overlapping chatter of his brothers up close and personal, each rushing to speak and raising their voices over one another, struggling to get a word in. Unarguably angry growling slips in between every few words exchanged, and then something - a fist or something similar enough against the console, he realizes in a stark moment of pending alertness - is slammed down with a horrid sort of clattering.

The noise is followed by an over-exaggerated scoffing from one - Echo - and an obscenity from another - Tech. Suddenly, Hunter is wholly awake and at attention.

Arguing. The pair of them, if not all three, are arguing.

“I can’t believe you’re going to keep entertaining her after whatever the hell that last stunt was!” Echo hisses, tone ripe with annoyed disbelief.

“As disorganized as she may be, it is my firm belief that she could prove herself a useful ally!” Tech bites back, and Hunter can hear the grimace without yet having entered the cockpit. “She clearly has quite the experience with a variety of locations around the Galaxy that we would not even think to visit, or ever know of to begin with,” he goes on, and Hunter raises a brow. Who his brothers are referring to eludes him. “We do not know what kind of information she could have for us, or that we could gain with her assistance. It would be prudent to explore every possible facet that is provided to us, and if this happens to be one of them, then let it be so.”

Breathing through his teeth, unwilling to let them keep bickering, let alone as loud as they are, Hunter trudges the rest of the way and into the cockpit, barely through the doorway before he notices just how physically tense the room feels; thick enough to cut through with his vibroblade.

A thin morning light streams through the viewport, tinted blue and barely strong enough to provide any real natural light. Wrecker is slumped in the seat situated behind the pilot’s chair and shaking his head, lips drawn into a thin light that signals untainted displeasure. His arms are crossed tersely over his chest, and while he doesn’t appear to have any hand in the active disagreement, his disapproval is all too apparent in the way that he watches his brothers with that distantly solemn gaze he gets if ever things become unpleasant.

Meanwhile, seemingly unbothered by their audience in Wrecker and whatever he may have to say about it, Tech and Echo stand practically toe to toe in front of the middle console. Tech’s hand is pressed down against the top, eyes burning behind the yellow of his goggles with a furious passion. Whatever he’s upset about, it isn’t something to take lightly, and Hunter won’t. Echo, on the other hand, looks less angry and more so disappointed, forehead creased with a visible chagrin.

Wrecker is the only one who turns to acknowledge Hunter’s presence, opening his mouth to say something, and looking at least a little thankful that he’s no longer in here alone with them, but he is swiftly interrupted by the resumed arguing between the others.

Echo straightens his back out to stand at his full height. “We can’t go around getting involved with one seedy character after another and keep hoping that something helpful comes out of one of them!” he snaps, getting seemingly louder with each syllable. Hunter winces at the sheer pitch. “I’ve accepted that we have to keep running jobs for Cid, for now, but we should be using the rest of our time to do something useful!”

Whatever this argument is about in particular, that gets Tech to match his brother’s stature in much the same way with a horribly fuming scowl. “And keeping our sister out of it is not useful enough for you?” he barks, and it feels as though it reverberates against the walls.

“It would be for her!”

“It could kill her!”

Despite how taken aback he is by that accusation of all things, Hunter does not let it stall him. Now, this REALLY cannot escalate, not when the door is open and Omega is some twenty feet away and suddenly, this has got something to do with her.

Without much thought, Hunter surges forward and slams his hand on the panel to shut the door behind him at the same time, hard enough to elicit a sound that rivals whatever had been smacked before. All three of them react in an instant, including Wrecker, already aware of his arrival. Tech jumps, whipping around, frantic and startled and searching for the source of the noise. Echo’s response is less extreme, eyes wide and head turning, but he’s surprised all the same.

Satisfied that he’s made his presence known, and that the door is closed, Hunter glares at the pair of them. “What the hell is going on,” he growls, keeping his voice even and taking a step closer, clenching and unclenching his fists. “And you better lower the damn volume-“ he warns, gaze flickering between them. “Because if you wake her up, so help me, one of you will be cleaning the ‘fresher alone for weeks while the other scrubs the keel of the ship until it’s damn spotless.”

Echo doesn’t wait. “A transmission came through from Phee last night, and she said she’s got a job for us,” he explains, voice cautiously low, and Hunter cocks a brow. Not at all what he anticipated. “And Tech,” he adds, practically spitting, “-says that we should go along with it because she can get us ‘information’,” he rolls his eyes, gesturing with his fingers.

“What I said-“ Tech sighs, audibly - to Hunter, anyway - grinding his teeth. “Was that Phee has all of the potential to be a helpful ally if we take the time to learn more about her, and it would therefore be beneficial to tolerate her for the time being.“

“You’re only on board with it because she’s been flirting with you,” Echo mutters under his breath.

“What are you going on about? She has done no such thing,” Tech replies, aghast. And he means that, wholeheartedly. He has no idea. If they weren’t currently in the middle of a heated debate, the sergeant might have laughed.

Hunter’s always had a keen eye for gauging others, and whether his enhanced senses have anything to do with that, he doesn’t know, but his opinion on Phee is, thus far, neutral, though positive. Even as a pirate, or whatever she calls herself, Phee has yet to give him a reason to distrust her, in spite of the fact that he knows she isn’t always as sure of herself as she tries to project. She appears well-intentioned enough, doesn’t pose a threat, plainly dislikes the Empire in her own way, and she’s been nothing by friendly towards Omega, which, even with his initial apprehension, he hasn’t failed to realize how happy that’s made her.

But she is also close with Cid, who has a reputation as somewhat of a - for lack of a better term - ‘loose cannon’. Not that he has any reason to believe that she’ll try anything to harm them, nor does he, but her… sense of adventure, so to speak, is not necessarily ‘up his alley’. They’ve only been on one real mission with her, and while it ultimately ended up… alright… it was not exactly the type of ‘excursion’ he is eager to make a habit of. The call was too close, and though everyone - with the exception of Phee’s droid - somehow made it out unscathed, his readiness to take most risks is long gone nowadays.

So therein lies the first aspect of this issue; varying opinions regarding her legitimacy as a benefactor. And Hunter isn’t exactly swayed in either direction, nor has Wrecker chimed in.

Tech clears his throat, crossing his arms. “I am merely saying that taking a job from Phee would not be any different than taking one from Cid. I do not know why Echo is so adamantly against it,” he continues, vaguely listless.

“I told you why,” Echo frowns, glaring a hole into the ground. “The deeper we get into this… mercenary thing, the harder it’ll be to get back out. Are we really going to do this forever? Is this all we’re ever going to do, when we’re completely capable of going out there and fighting back against the Empire for those who can’t? We should be using the time that we don’t need to earn credits to do more for the Galaxy. Exploring with Phee won’t get us anywhere.”

“Why can’t we do all of it?” Wrecker says, getting out of his seat and taking the opportunity to get his own voice into all of this. “I mean, we’re not part-a anything, we can do whatever we wanna…”

Hunter is unable to help his own small frown. Yes… and no. While it is true that they’ve been able to stay off the Empire’s radar, and have been assumed either dead or long gone, there are still precautions they need to take in order to protect themselves, and Omega, whilst continuing to fly by undetected. It can be difficult, since they are technically civilians now, and have to find means of making their own credits, hence Cid, but all in all, it’s gone considerably well since Kamino. Certainly better than it could be. It could be a lot worse. And quite frankly, he’s content with this. Staying out of the action while picking and choosing what they do.

He knows that Echo feels differently. Unlike the rest of his brothers, Echo is patriotic, so to speak. His devotion to the Republic is matched only by Rex. His experience in the army and on Kamino as a cadet was vastly different than it ever was for the Bad Batch or Omega, and even though his time on Skako Minor does about match what was once done to them, it was never the Kaminoans or the Republic who had a hand in his nightmare. While he was fine to figure things out on their own when the Empire first came to power, he has been noticeably itching to get back into the fight for months now.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Hunter is opposed to that, or that he cares any for the Empire, which he never will, and everything to do with the idea that Omega is valuable to the cloning program, as well as force sensitive. If they get too close, if the Empire catches a glimpse of her, they will pursue her.

And Hunter will do whatever he has to, no matter what it entails, in order to avoid that, and all of the consequences that will come with it. He knows his brother’s will, too, but he suspects that Echo’s inclination to take risks is different from his own, purely for the sake of protecting all that he cares about equally.

Therein lies the other half of the problem, then. Getting closer to Phee means different things depending on which one of them you ask.

“One thing at a time,” he offers with a sigh, eyes flicking between his brothers. “What did Phee say about the mission? What’s involved?”

Tech adjusts his goggles and his posture visibly relaxes. “When her transmission came through last night, she asked to speak with all of us. I informed her that you had already retired for the evening, and she told me that it would be best if she could relay the information all at once,” he says, gesturing towards the communications system at the console. “I asked when she would be contacting again, and all she said was sometime this morning, thus I made a point of getting up early to ensure that I do not miss it when she hails for us a second time.”

In other words, he has no idea what the actual job is, only that there is one, and it happens to be from Phee. He is, however, somewhat annoyed that this means the pair of them chose to argue over something neither of them yet have the full details for.

Choosing to curb most visible irritation in spite of himself, Hunter pinches the bridge of his nose. “If this is a hypothetical job that we have no idea whether or not we can even take, then what are you both getting worked up about?” he inquires, hoping one of them doesn’t throw some snarky answer back in his face as they are prone to do.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Wrecker grumbles, throwing himself back down in the chair.

“I don’t want this to become a regular thing, Hunter,” Echo replies, on the cusp of it sounding like a plea. “Cid isn’t ideal as is.”

Tech’s shoulders slump, and - perhaps selfishly - Hunter is relieved that they seem to be losing the steam to plow on so resolutely. “It does not have to,” he insists. “I only want us to live in a situation where we are privy to as much information as we can be in order to bolster our personal defenses. We have to remain vigilant. Knowledge is power, of which we otherwise have very little.”

Truth be told, Hunter hasn’t exactly been taken by either end of the debate. Both have merit, Tech making a good point that no potential ally should be so easily dismissed, whereas Echo is correct in arguing that this may not be a kind of life they want to have long term, even if Hunter’s idea of a future is different than his. But it will be difficult to some extent to come to a solution, if not a compromise, until Phee contacts them, assuming that she still plans to do so based off of what Tech has told them.

“There’s nothing we can do until we hear more. Let’s wait to see what she’s got for us before we make any choices,” Hunter decides, looking at them both with what he hopes is a placating expression. “But as far as this-“ and he gestures between them with one hand. “-goes, I don’t ever want to hear Omega brought into something like this again, no matter what the reason is? Are we clear?”

Tech nods immediately, face neutrally serious, and Echo, looking somewhat ashamed, mirrors his brother.

Satisfied and ready to leave well enough alone, Hunter falls back into the chair situated across from Wrecker, behind the co-pilot’s seat. If it’s all that he’ll get out of them about it, that’s fine. He knows that the message got across, even if it may not show as well on their faces, and the sooner this is over, the better. If Omega wakes up to find them unhappy with each other, - if they even remotely make it evident, that is - he’ll follow through on both of his threats, and he cannot be swayed. Then nobody will be happy.

Now with Omega in mind, he glances at the chrono mounted on the console. Nearly eight-hundred hours already. She really must have been exhausted last night, though she wouldn’t admit it, if she’s slept this long undisturbed. He’s glad, at least, that she’s slept through the night and is most likely well rested. Regardless, it is about time to get her up, he thinks, and get her moving. They’ve still got to distribute morning rations, and discuss their plan of action for the day, not to mention how disappointed he suspects she’ll be if she misses Phee, whenever it is that she does hail them.

His first instinct is to grab Wrecker’s attention and send his brother in to wake her up. He’s got a knack for that, after all: waking people up. Omega especially, due in no small part to the fact that any moment wherein Wrecker starts to rile her up, she’s effectively engrossed in an instant, bubbling with energy and ready to get into whatever it is that he’s got for her to get into.

Just as he leans forward, however, opening his mouth to call for Wrecker and get him going, he pauses, as he is suddenly aware of the distinct pitter-patter of feet padding across the hull floor towards the cockpit, joining the white noise of the ship in his ears. Almost as if on cue.

Nevermind.

Hunter sits back in his chair and turns it towards the door just in time to watch is slide open. Expectedly, he is met with Omega on the other side.

His little girl is slumped forward a little in the doorway, eyes clearly still bleary with sleep, blonde curls mussed up and sticking out at various ends. In one hand, she clutches Lula to her chest, the doll’s ears brushing up against her cheek. She releases a huge yawn, screwing her shut tight, and scratches at the back of her head with her free hand before tensing her shoulders by means of freeing herself of the stiffness that comes with waking up.

Blinking once, twice, she shakes her head as if to shake the sleep away, and her eyes widen with alertness. She scans over the cockpit, and Hunter watches as she stops for a few seconds on each of her brothers, as if fully registering their individual presence, before ending on him. She stares at him for a long moment before sighing, hugging both of her lanky arms around herself and Lula, and shuffling forward.

“‘ello,” she mumbles to no one of them in particular, to which Tech and Echo both reply with hasty ‘good morning’s as they seem to recover, Tech quickly moving to busy himself with whatever it was that Hunter assumes he was doing before he and Echo got into it. Thankfully not seeming to notice any dissipating tension, Omega comes to a halt in front of Hunter’s knees with a tiny smile.

Without giving it any thought at all, he opens his arms to give her the space to climb up onto his lap, which she promptly does, tactile kid that she is. She doesn’t need an invitation, nor does she often ask for one, keen to wordlessly crawl on top of his legs and get comfortable, to which he gladly obliges, just as keen to return the physical affection that she prefers. But she’s hardly awake yet, and the way she fumbles about as she battles with the lingering tiredness is endearing.

“Mornin’ ad’ika,” Hunter grins, in stark contrast with his exasperation just minutes prior. He brings one hand up to squeeze her shoulder before running it through her knotted hair in some attempt to smooth out the unruliness. “Sleep good?”

Laying her head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her to keep her from sliding off, she nods against him. “Mhm.”

Wrecker, seeming to have fully composed himself now as well, rumbles a laugh. “You sure there kid? You ain’t gonna go fallin’ back to sleep on us now, are ya?” he asks, only teasing, of course. Omega wastes no time tilting her head to look at him, narrowing her eyes and raising one brow, to which Wrecker instantly laughs again, this time louder. “A’right, a’right. Just gotta make sure yer in tip-top shape!”

“I’m always in tip-top shape,” she retorts, betrayed then by a yawn as if to serve as punctuation.

That earns a chuckle, from all them, even Tech (though it is more along the lines of an amused snort, as with Tech it often is). Leave it up to Omega to make everyone feel better. Whether she could tell they needed that or not, he hasn’t got a guess. Maybe she can sense it in the force, - not that he has any idea how that works - maybe she just knew, or maybe she didn’t at all. Regardless, Hunter feels a bout of pride swell in his chest. Good kid.

The cockpit descends into a moment of pleasant stillness, and Hunter focuses on nothing in particular. The rising Ord Mantell sun, almost fully alive, by now, peeks through the viewport to better illuminate the space. Echo sighs and moves to tend to something blinking at the console that Hunter notices out of the corner of his eye. Tech procures his datapad from beside the pilot’s seat, meanwhile Wrecker pushes himself up with a groan and proceeds out the cockpit, - either to lift Gonky as per usual at this time of morning, or to find something to eat, is Hunter’s guess - tapping Omega lightly on the shoulder as he passes by.

Hunter’s hand runs absentmindedly through her hair, the little girl shifting against his chest, reaching forward and picking at his sleeve with two fingers. Now not only can he hear her heartbeat, alongside his own and his brothers’, but he can feel it whilst in such close proximity. Thump. Thump. Thump. Steady, and as real as it will ever be. Shameless reassurance of his own, in the midst of morning so unlike last evening.

Without provocation, Omega then turns her head up to look at him, gaze watching him with an obvious curiosity; as if she is studying him. Lula falls against her knees as she takes both of her hands to wrap them around his bicep, all while watching him. Whatever the reason, because Hunter cannot begin to guess, she stares, expression unreadable, and if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought she wasn’t blinking, either.

“Everything good, kid?” he asks quietly, purely on instinct, his first thought being whether or not she’s alright.

Omega simply nods, a small smile spreading on her face that Hunter cannot help but immediately feel himself smiling back to. “Yeah, I just feel something… I dunno, in the force I guess. I can sense something,” she answers, relatively indifferent for a child still getting used to such a thing. It comes across rather nonchalant considering all of the circumstances that still surround her force sensitivity, and, to his welcome surprise, she seems unbothered. “I dunno what it is, but it feels nice.”

That sends a sort of feeling through Hunter’s chest that causes him to subconsciously wrap his arms a little tighter around her shoulders. As much as he feels that he doesn’t understand the force as much as he should being that his child is directly connected to it, she has been handling it incredibly well since the incidents at Ajan Kloss and Tafanda Bay that made her wholly privy to it. She had begun in panic, and confusion, for which he will never blame her; he can’t imagine how he would react were it him who had been through what she has that led her to this point.

It is, simply put… nice- nice to know that it hasn’t been all bad, and that it can make her smile, even if she doesn’t know the cause. She’s learning, and that makes her a hell of a lot strong than he. Her panic was justified, and still, all by her own will, she’s taken great strides in overcoming all of it. Asking for help when she needs it, and processing, even if that means pointedly ignoring the force wielding aspects of her abilities. Though, that is a separate concern all on its own.

Hunter hardly feels as though the same can be said for himself, and his own inglorious response to fear of an unknown.

A sharp beeping from the console interrupts his thoughts before they have a chance to go anywhere at all, - thank the Maker - and both he and Omega turn at the same time to find the source. Omega straightens up in his lap and he lets his hands fall to his knees to give her the space to move. She cranes her neck to get a look, cocking a brow. After a beat, Hunter recognizes the beeping as the communications system, alerting them to an incoming transmission.

Tech is the first one to react in full, snapping his head up and taking his datapad along with. He leans over the screen beside the holoprojector with a sense of expectation in his eyes, adjusting his goggles on his nose. Past his hand by his face, Hunter watches as his brother’s eyes grow bigger, that sort of look that he usually gets when he’s pleased with something.

That’s more than enough to inform the sergeant that it must be-

“Phee is contacting us,” Tech announces to the cockpit, a cheery lilt to his voice.

Nearly mimicking Tech’s expression, Omega perks up, sliding off of Hunter’s lap, causing the poor and unsuspecting Lula to tumble to the durasteel floor with thud that Hunter finds oddly amusing. “Phee? Why? Are we going on another adventure?” she asks, words spilling over her lips, whipping her head around with with an anticipatory look across her face, suddenly very wide awake. “Where are we going? Is she going to come here and fly with us again? I wanna hear more of her stories and-“

“Slow down there, soldier,” Echo says, much gentler with her than he had been with Tech, but still sounding not all too pleased. “Tech says she might have a job for us, but that’s all-“ he insists, as if to attempt to dilute her expectations before she gets her hopes up too high.

Tech tilts his head, hand hovering over the button to patch the transmission through. “Miss Omega, would you please summon Wrecker for me-“

She does not wait for him to finish, let alone make him ask twice. “Wrecker!” she bellows out the cockpit door without moving to get any closer to wherever he’s gone off too, relying on her voice carrying, - which it most certainly does, Hunter thinks to himself, impressed by just how loud such a physically small girl can manage to raise her voice - merely bouncing on the balls of her feet and grinning from ear to ear. “Phee is calling! C’mon!”

Somewhere in the back of the hull, there is a bang, followed by Wrecker audibly fumbling about and muttering something under his breath. Then, heavy footsteps, moving with great haste down the corridor, and Hunter can tell that he’s got something in his hands by shuffling alone. He reappears not four seconds later, arms curled over his broad chest and full of ration bars, stacked haphazardly over his biceps. In other words, their intended morning meal, or, perhaps, all of them are for Wrecker. It is not necessarily safe to assume that they were brought in with the intention of sharing.

Evidently eager to get on with it, Tech does not wait for him to settle down, or drop the pile of ration bars, and presses the button, accepting the transmission, before backing away to give both himself and the rest of them a better view.

The holoprojector stalls for a few seconds, old and well-used that it is, before flickering slowly to life. The bright, translucent blue light remains an inconspicuous form for a moment before taking shape to reveal - of course - none other than Phee herself, from the knees up.

“Well hello there, boys,” she grins, corners of her eyes creased with the smile, and they drift over the room before landing on the enthusiastic little girl planted front and center. She raises both brows and the smile widens. “And my favorite Omega.”

Chapter Text

“I’m the only Omega you know,” Omega giggles back at Phee’s remark, matching her grin with a huge one all her own.

At that, Phee seems to straighten up on the other end of the holo, throwing the little girl a questioning look. “You’re sure ‘bout that?” she quips back, all kindly playful, which Hunter appreciates quite a bit. She really is great with kids, there’s no doubt about that. “I’ve been all around the Galaxy, you don’t know how many Omegas I mighta met.”

Omega lifts her chin triumphantly. “Well Wrecker says there’s only one of me, so you’re lucky,” she declares, and Hunter can’t help but laugh, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth. He is, of course, extremely pleased to see his kid acting like… well, a kid. Especially with someone who is friendly in return, and, if nothing else, seems to know the right things to say both in the capacity of getting a positive reaction out of Omega, and avoiding an unpleasant one from him; boundaries. “‘Cuz you met the best Omega, even though you’ve been everywhere,” she adds, crossing her arms.

“Huh, you got me there kid,” Phee laughs, shaking her head.

Phee is, on the outside, not all that extraordinary. She’s a good half of one foot - give or take - shorter than Tech, though her hair alone roughly makes up for that missing height, as Hunter has only ever seen it styled upwards. She sports clothing in dull, plain tones that allows her to blend in both with a crowd and the forest. She does not gear up in armor, or anything akin to such, and aside from carrying a blaster, just like most of the rest of the Galaxy does, she’s not exactly armed, either. If she hadn’t been introduced to them as a pirate explicitly, he probably would have guess that she’s a cargo pilot.

Maybe this is by design. She’s proven herself smart enough to navigate her way around the Galaxy and survive, and in this new age of the rising Empire, coming right out of the war, that truly does count for something. Ensuring that you don’t stand out when you don’t want to get mixed up in this mess, laying low, takes a certain amount of skill. You have to know what you’re doing, and Phee certainly does.

Though, Hunter imagines it is probably easier to some degree to do so when you are on your own. Phee informed them from day one that she prefers to work alone when it comes down to business, and as far as he’s aware, she travels by herself, too. He’s never seen her ship, assuming that she actually does have one somewhere, but he doesn’t picture her galavanting around the Galaxy, moving from place to place in something bulky or flashy or both, that’s easy to pick out in a port.

The holo flickers a few times, nearly in and out, so wherever it is she’s making contact with them from, it’s either not all that close by, or the connection is poor. “As for you boys,” she says, propping both of her hands on the sides of her hips. “I hope you aren’t over there just lazin’ about whenever I’m not around to show you a good time,” she winks, and Echo does not stifle his groan, rolling his eyes. Wrecker makes a small noise of indignation. If Phee hears it over the conm, then she ignores it. “Hah! Brown-Eyes tells me that you were all out and down for the count way early last night!”

Tech moves to interject, looking distraught at her retelling of their discussion. “Actually, what I said was that we had already begun our routine sleep cycles, and it was hardly early when your transmission came through. Statistically speaking, those who are constantly moving about by means of spacecraft are more likely to become tired over long periods of time, and Omega is a growing child, meaning that it is imperative that we maintain a sleep pattern steady enough to offset any negative side effects of-“

“Yeah yeah,” Phee sighs, waving him off dismissively, and poor Tech, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, presses his lips into a thin line. “You gotta keep ‘em in line, kid,” she quickly addresses Omega, smirking ever so slightly. “Especially good ‘ol Brown-Eyes.”

Tech glances off to the side and shakes his head, exasperated.

Another thing about Phee, the part that Hunter is still trying to make total sense of, is her apparent vested interest in Tech particularly. She is flirting with him, that much is obvious to everyone except, ironically, Tech himself. She gives him obscure nicknames, tries to get him flustered by making the occasional flattering comment (which never works due namely to Tech’s naturally blunt approach to everything and anything), and sends him the rare coy gesture or two, like a wink or such (Tech doesn’t really get those, either). It’s the ‘why’ that Hunter just can’t seem to get his finger on the pulse of.

That isn’t to say that Hunter doesn’t believe his brother is incapable nor undeserving of being pursued with the intention of a romance or a relationship, or pursuing a potential partner himself, if that’s what he wants. But Tech is nothing if not… candid, is perhaps the best term. He has always been extremely impassive towards most, especially within his relationships. Not at all for a lack of caring; Tech makes it very clear in all his own ways how much he cares about his family, and about Omega. It’s simply because that is how his brain is wired to think. To those who aren’t close with him, or didn’t spend their entire lives with him, it can be difficult to understand.

It is just as difficult for Tech to understand the emotions of others, especially flirtatious behavior directed at him. Again, only because his mind doesn’t think that way. Even with Omega, and the new emotional territory that she has brought into his life in terms of being his tactile little sister, took quite some time for him to adapt.

Yet, Phee doesn’t seem deterred, and she hasn’t let up on her pursuit even though she has definitely noticed by now that - if she is seriously interested in him, and not just having a bit of fun trying to mess with him - he isn’t going to be very easy to get through to. Some aspect of Hunter, the same that he can directly attribute to his role as the eldest sibling among his squad, is pleased to see Tech getting this kind of attention in a positive manner, even if he doesn’t recognize it. At the same time, he wonders in the back of his mind if it will ever amount to anything, for a multitude of reasons.

“I do not need to be kept in line,” Tech mumbles under his breath, stepping backwards until the underside of his knees hit the edge of the pilot’s seat and he all but falls into it. Hunter forces a chuckle down his throat.

Knowing this sort of banter has the potential to go on for a while, he takes this as an opportunity to step in and, hopefully, get to business. “Tech also told us that you have a job proposition?” he says, framing it as a question. When Phee turns her eyes over to him, he feels as though she is staring him down with a sort of calculating gaze. He does not know why, but he feels the need to sit up a little taller as a result. “No guarantees, but we’ll hear you out, if our lazing around didn’t cost us the chance.”

Who knows, maybe she’s already found a taker and they’re already well on their way to getting it done. There’s no question that she’s got plenty of connections she can turn to other than his squad. But he can’t resist the opportunity to poke back at her, once he’s thought of it.

She seems to find it amusing, as does Omega, giggling and watching from the middle of it all. “It’s not so much a job as it is an opportunity,” Phee shrugs, leaning against something out of view of the holoprojector’s scan. “And not just for me, I might add. For both of us. You can pick up something for me, and get a little something for yourselves in return, if you want it.”

“We’ve heard that before,” Hunter replies, deadpan and suddenly wary. He hasn’t only heard that before, but he’s heard it one hundred times over by now, every time that Cid’s got a mission for them. He can’t think of the last time that they ever really benefited from a job that, meanwhile, made Cid a whole hunk of credits that she is always content to keep largely for herself.

But Phee quickly shakes her head, putting both of her hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Now hold on a minute Pops, it’s not that kinda job,” she hastens to insist, eyes widening as Hunter feels himself scowl; he’s not too sure where ‘Pops’ came from, or what it’s supposed to mean, but he’s not sure that he likes it, either. “I won’t go beating around the tuanulberry bush here, there are some risks involved, but I think the payout might just be worth it.”

In less words, he’s heard that plenty of times, too.

“I’m having the information sent over to Brown-Eyes as we speak, ‘cuz I’ve got a load of intel with your names on it and I’d hate for it to go to waste,” she starts, scanning over the room. Tech checks his datapad at mention of the data transfer, Omega tilting her head to look over his shoulder at whatever it is that Phee is sending over. The little girl is still rapt with curiosity, jittery in the way that she moves, bouncing in place on the edges of her toes. At least she’s enjoying herself, and that gets Hunter to look back at Phee with a slightly less intense expression.

“I’ve gotta pal, name’s Greez, who has a habit of hearin’ interesting bits and pieces of what’s goin’ on in the Galaxy. He tells me that there was a kid from Seswenna, real smart apparently, who had a knack for all kinds of mechanical stuff. When the Empire took over, he built himself some little bunker in the middle of the woods out there to steal data remotely from Imperial shipyards that started popping up,” she explains, and so far, Hunter can’t say he’s impressed, but he can see where this is going. “He stole other things from the Empire too, and kept it all down there under lock and key.

“Well, the kid ate it two weeks ago. Got in over his head or something and was killed by an unhappy customer,” and he notices how Omega frowns at this, forehead creased in that way he’s come to learn means she’s got a thought that she’s trying to work out in her mind. “‘Course, now he left that whole bunker with heaps of data and Imp trinkets behind and ripe for the taking. I’m not sayin’ I make a habit of stealing from dead folks, but it would be a shame to let it go to waste out there when we can use it.”

Echo shifts closer to the holoprojector. “What do you want out of there?”

“Some of the things he took, he was gonna try and sell on the black market,” Phee adds. Hunter raises a brow, and shares a quick skeptical look with Echo, who appears less than displeased. “One of ‘em that I know of for sure was a type of ceremonial blade that was used by the Toydarians only by royalty and for special occasions, which makes it a pretty rare find. They didn’t make those often, and they almost never gave it to anyone outside of their own people.”

Hunter doesn’t know what Phee does with these various bit and pieces of curios that she collects, but from what he can tell, she’s got quite a bit. Tech has said that much of what she’s claimed to have in her possession isn’t worth very much by way of credits, or can’t be used for anything worthwhile, which only makes it all the more confounding. Aren’t pirates supposed to spend their time accumulating treasures that are worth something?

He can’t imagine that she has any use for a Toydarian ceremonial sword, yet here she is, wanting to send them to retrieve it for her.

“Well what’d’a we get outta it?” Wrecker rumbles, sounding intrigued. Conveniently, that much has been left out thus far.

Phee grins over at him. “A whole load of information on the Empire, straight from the source,” she replies.

Tech blinks owlishly behind his goggles. “While that has quite the potential to be incredibly useful, Seswenna is nowhere close. We do not currently have enough to cover the ultimate costs of fuel, which, by my calculations, will amount to somewhere between fifteen-hundred and two-thousand credits round trip, not to mention other supplies.”

“Oh I’ll pay you for your trouble,” Phee briskly adds, pursing her lips. “I can’t have you running errands for me and not compensate for you. I’m a fair player,” she nods, shifting to the side to grab something that Hunter can’t see, but he can hear her rattling around out of view. “And for Omega and Brown-Eyes, I’m willing to make a bit of a higher offer than I would to my other associates,” she laughs, muffled while out of view, but Omega must hear it regardless, a light red flush dusting her cheeks.

Two long seconds pass, Hunter tapping his finger against his thigh absentmindedly, before Phee pops back up into view with all the spontaneity of an enthusiastic woman. In her hands, she has procured a case that he can infer is full - or only half full, or one quarter full, or perhaps completely empty, if not housing something entirely different - of credits. It clatters when she shifts it into one arm, but whatever is inside hardly makes much noise at all. And, with her now free hand, she fiddles with the latch of the case until it pops open, steadily lifting the lid.

True to his initial suspicion, the case is filled with credits; rows and rows of what he can tell even through the blue tint of the holo is a grand, shimmering silver, tightly packed together, side to side, pressed against the edges of the case to the point that, when Phee tilts it forward to give the squad a better look through the holo, none of the credits so much as shudder, not even enough to clink together. The case has to be just about as large as both of Wrecker’s hand side by side, and - Hunter thinks with muted hilarity - as about as thick as Tech’s skull.

He is hardly any expert on how many credits it takes to make a man rich, let alone how much it would cost for his family to live in better comfort, but what he does know is that she is holding in her hand a hell of a lot more credits than he has seen in his entire lifetime, and probably ever will.

For a moment, he doesn’t believe that she’s offering them all of that just to pull some old blade with no real use or value out of some kid’s abandoned bunker, and he forces himself out of this daze, staring at the case with realistic clarity.

Phee closes the case back up, lid snapping shut, and takes it by the handle to drop it somewhere at her side. “That’s fifteen-thousand credits for you, and- I’ll front you another five thousand to cover the cost of getting out to Seswenna in the first place,” she offers, and it is the tone of her voice, plain and cheery, that triggers whatever little component of Hunter’s brain is trained to first be skeptical by trade to realize that it is a sincere proposition.

If the sheer weight of those numbers makes Hunter feel vaguely lightheaded, he’ll never admit it, but it’s a very real feeling clattering around in his head and he is aware of Omega glancing back at him, eyes wide in surprise, no doubt sensing his reaction and meeting it with an identical one of her own; that is, pure and utter shock. Fifteen-thousand credits, alongside five-thousand just to make it to the second of the Outer Rim wherein Seswenna is located, only a fraction of which will likely be spent on the travel, in comparison to the total they’ll actually make in the end…

Knocking himself out of his bewilderment just enough to cast a brief glance around the room, he notes with some relief that he isn’t the only one caught off guard by the absurdity of it. Wrecker’s mount hangs slightly agape, sitting up more in his chair. Tech and Echo share a look, the latter clearing his throat and quickly looking away, blinking rapidly as Hunter suspects he tries to make sense of it.

Omega stares down at her feet with a mindful expression, and Hunter can practically see the wheels turning in her head. Despite her age, her grasp on income is unfortunately rather solid. She understands their financial situation better than he wishes she did, and better than Wrecker does. As much as he didn’t have anywhere near a childhood, nor does Omega, he’s pretty sure that kids aren’t supposed to worry themselves with the logistics of credits, and what they’re worth.

In spite of himself, and his prior - and probable still - reluctance to even give Phee a chance, Echo clears his throat a little louder as the first to seemingly fully recover, and Hunter is, for the most part, brought out of his stupor. “Why pay us anything up front?” he asks, rubbing his hand at the back of his neck. “What if something goes wrong and it doesn’t work out?”

Phee, unbothered, gives a small shrug with one shoulder. “Then you can consider it payment for your trouble to get out there. I won’t make you owe me, except for maybe a drink from Cid’s,” and she winks, directly at Tech, who only furrows his brow in further confusion.

Hunter presses his lips into a thin line. Of course, there is plenty more to this job - to any job - than credits, but that doesn’t make them any less of a factor to take into consideration.

“Well, sorry to cut this short,” Phee sighs, though the smile on her face hardly feels ‘sorry’. “But I’ve got other business to attend to-“

“Wait, you aren’t coming with us on the mission?” Omega stumbles forward, wringing her hands over her stomach.

Something on the other end, wherever Phee is, must catch her attention, as she casts a look over her shoulder suddenly. “Unfortunately, I’m a little busy with somethin’ else a lot less fun at the moment, which is why I’m askin’ Cid’s top team to handle it for me. And why I’m offerin’ so much,” she explains, slowly turning to look back at Omega. “You all give it some thought and have Brown-Eyes send me a message if you accept, then I’ll transfer the data and supply credits over right away- it was good catchin’ up-“ the holo flickers and whirs, and she cuts the connection, her last remark just barely making it through the receiver. “Hope your squad is up for it-!”

The transmission goes dark.

Hunter runs a hand down his face, as a feeling of overwhelm is now settling in his stomach; as though it has been waiting for the rush of words and information to come to an end before it all comes pouring over him at once. It is… quite the handful that Phee has dropped on them, this job proposal, only to conclude it by mentioning that the pay is beyond what any of them have ever been lucky enough to see, - not that she knows that - and hasty instructions as to what to do in the event that they choose to accept this.

A beat passes, and Tech stands up out of his chair, pacing forward across the cockpit. Hunter follows him with his eyes, as he takes purposeful strides up to where Echo is beside the co-pilot’s seat, before turning on his heel and marching back the other way. He presses a hand to the bottom of his chin in thought, mumbling under his breath. Wrecker reclines back in his seat, face slack with astonishment. Omega and Echo remain stationary, as if frozen by surprise, their own awe nothing short of obvious.

Pinching his forehead between two fingers, Hunter leans forward, propping his elbows up on his knees.

Twenty-thousand-odd credits; that is how much Phee has offered them, and to do what, exactly?

She wants them to travel out to Seswenna, a planet in the Outer Rim, to dig through some dead boy’s bunker and retrieve a blade that is, in his humble opinion, not worth the massive payout that she’s willing to give them should they succeed. A bunker that’s supposedly filled with a plethora of various other goods and resources left behind by whoever it was who went to the trouble of collecting them for whatever undisclosed purpose. In both his years as a Sergeant for the Republic and the time that has since passed after the war, he’s been given far more uncanny debriefs with worse objectives than search and retrieval. It isn’t that complicated, in principle.

In principle. But there are moving parts, and Hunter can’t say he knows too much about any of them. Not as much as he needs in order to make an informed decision.

“Are we… gonna do it?” Wrecker pipes up, drawing the attention of the cockpit. “Stealin’ somethin’? We can do that sleepin’, and we’ll get a whole lotta credits!”

Omega picks at the hem of her shirt distractedly. “But the guy who used to have all that stuff was… killed-“ she mutters, frowning, the guilt as clear in her voice as it can be. “It doesn’t seem right to take stuff, ‘cuz maybe he left it all for someone else, or he was gonna do something important with it,” she turns to Hunter as if hoping for an answer. “Why was he stealing from the Empire anyway?”

Money, survival, fame, spite. There are plenty of reasons to take from the Empire, many of which his family has already indulged in on multiple occasions. Why this boy did it, he can only take a guess, and he has a strong feeling that swiping trinkets valuable on the black market and data, among whatever else, means that he was probably only interested in adding some weight to his own pockets. In which case, Hunter doesn’t see an issue with pilfering the stash he’s left behind. The kid is dead, now, and maybe it’s harsh to think so, but the fact of the matter is that he can’t do anything with any of it anymore.

Naturally, Omega’s innocence - while relieving in its own right, and wholly appropriate - means that she isn’t inclined to see it the same way. He suspects that a part of her reluctance is due to the fact that they don’t know for sure what his intentions had been, which means there still exists the chance that he was going to do something important. That, and they’d be taking things from someone who no longer has the ability to defend himself. It’s a different way of looking at this, surely, but Hunter can understand the perspective.

“I suspect he was against this new government, and had wished to demonstrate his defiance in the way that he knew best, or was most skilled to act,” Tech suggests matter-of-fact. “It stands to reason that a young man who ultimately got in over his head, resulting in his untimely demise, was likely more interested in the idea of revolt against a system he did not agree with rather than the integrity of his operation.”

Echo clicks his tongue, rubbing his flesh hand over his scomp. “Either way, the benefits outweigh the possible problems here, don’t they?” His attitude, and his tone, are not at all how they were earlier, annoyed and blatantly stubborn to the idea of doing anything for Phee at all. His present interest is not outright zealousness is all too obvious. “We make a lot of credits that we can use however we see fit, and if what she says about the data is true, there might be information we can obtain that can be fed over to Rex to use in his fight with the Empire.”

This, of course, gets Omega to perk up, hastily looking to Echo. “Help Rex?”

Her brother shrugs, eyeing Hunter. “We could.”

And despite Hunter’s own hesitancy to get involved in Rex’s operation, - whatever it is at the moment - feeding him intel from behind the ‘durasteel curtain’ so to speak isn’t an inherently risky venture, so long as they do it without leaving a trail…

“What kind of a state is Seswenna in right now?” Hunter asks, turning his head up to look at Tech. His first concern, of course, is his family’s safety. His daughter’s safety. If there is any chance that traveling out there will put them, put her, in any amount of considerable danger, more so than the rudimentary risks of living as fugitives in a Galaxy out to get them, then the credits, and the gain, lose all meaning.

Shuffling closer to the console, Tech plugs a cord into the end of his datapad, fingers flying nimbly over the screen. “Technically speaking, the Seswenna sector, as well as the Seswenna world itself, is Imperial occupied. However, it is not policed by the Imperial government,” he explains without looking up, squinting through his goggles. “It is a primary location along the Hydian Way, a super-hyperroute used by traders, smugglers, and the occasional travelers to move easily across the Outer Rim. As a result, Seswenna is made up primarily of ports that said travelers can utilize in order to refuel or resupply often overnight.”

Without waiting for any feedback, Tech hastens to add, “We would not be out of place, and it is safe to assume that we would be left alone, even if we were to dock proper. The Empire only bothers itself with their shipyards in the outskirts, at the moment. They do not control the ports, not yet, which is presumably why the late ‘collector’ was able to maintain a bunker on the same planet from which he was likely robbing the Empire,” he pauses, glancing up to meet Hunter’s gaze. “If that is what you are asking.”

Leave it to Tech, ever insightful and thorough to a point of expertise, to understand exactly what it is that Hunter wants to hear without having to be embarrassingly specific. The irony of the fact that he, in turn, does not understand romantic advances in spite of this, is not lost on Hunter.

“Then why not?” Wrecker grumbles, clearly getting restless at the indecision. “Twenty-thousand… we could eat until we’re lookin’ like puffer pigs…”

Omega raises an eyebrow, spinning around to face the whole cockpit, as she slowly backs up nearer to Hunter. “So… we could help out Phee, and maybe Rex, and pay for food,” she mumbles, forehead creasing as she furrows her brows, as if trying to reason with herself. Casually, instinctively, Hunter places a gentle hand on her back, in between her shoulders. He doesn’t miss how she leans against him, relaxing ever so slightly. “And everything was stolen from the Empire, at least, and we’re not with the Empire or anything so I guess it wouldn’t be that bad, right?”

“If we retrieve the information that he stole from the Empire, we’d be using it for a good cause,” Echo replies with defiance, and purpose. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Then I don’t see why not!” Wrecker insists impatiently.

“There is one other thing,” Tech interjects, disrupting his siblings’ deliberation. He looks up from his datapad fully, but despite his even intonation, he does not mask a slight thoughtful frown. “Cid is expecting our attendance this morning, and anticipates our routine acceptance of a new assignment. While we are under no contractual obligation to appear as requested, it is safe to assume based upon past experience that she will not be pleased if we fail to show up.”

Right. Cid.

Truth be told, Hunter forgot all about her, and their prior commitment to report back today, amidst all of the natural and unnatural chaos brought about by morning, and if Tech didn’t bring it up now, he might have completely neglected to ever take her into consideration regarding whether they accept or reject Phee’s job offer.

Cid is a lot of things. Unfortunately, neither lenient nor forgiving are among them. She has demonstrated time and time again how much importance she places on the idea that his squad remain ever at her disposal, to be used as she pleases and when she desires. On many occasions, she has made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t care if they’re half-alive in a ditch on a distant planet; if she expects them to report for a new mission, then she cannot be swayed to let them off the hook. Not even when Omega was abducted on Bracca was she willing to let them pursue his little girl without making a fuss about the time lost.

If they show up within the hour, only to tell her that they will not be taking whatever work she has laid out for them, but will instead be working a job that he knows is bound to be better by default, let alone for one of her ‘friends’, - Hunter wonders if they’re really friends, and not just occasional business partners - she’ll gut the lot of them where they stand.

“She won’t be happy,” Omega grimaces at the realization.

Tech nods slowly. “No, she would not. However, we do not live for Cid. We have the right to decide where to go from here,” he agrees, carefully, before giving Hunter an expectant look. “What do you say, Sarge.”

It is, he supposes, up to him, isn’t it?

And for the first time in quite a while, the answer feels… apparent- even without all that much thought.

Echo is right to raise the question as to whether or not this is their long term. ‘Are we really going to do this forever?’ The ideal answer, the optimistic answer, is no; no, they aren’t going to spend the rest of their lives, and Omega’s childhood, running errands to make credits for someone else who is unwilling to get her hands dirty, whilst eager to reap the rewards buried in the sweat and grime behind each mission. Why should they? Why should Cid’s implicitly controlling behavior dictate their entire existence, when there is someone else, not quite as selfish as she, who is willing to play fair?

His brothers are on board with this job. Omega is on board. The odds are, according to Tech, in their favor. The bunker is unguarded by its owner, the prospective wealth contained within waiting to be liberated. If the rumors about the stolen data are true, Echo can contribute to Rex’s cause as he desires. And the payout, the undeniably incredible payout, feels larger than life. He has never been a man motivated by money, nor is he now. What he is motivated by is the potential of that money, and what it could mean for his daughter.

Twenty-thousand credits can stock their medkit for a year. Twenty-thousand credits can feed them for well over a month. Twenty-thousand credits can settle their remaining debt to Cid. Twenty-thousand credits can is enough to put aside, towards a small, remote piece of land on a distant planet, wherein Hunter can RAISE Omega, AWAY from the danger of action. His family can settle down. They can have a life. The life that Omega deserves.

A safer childhood, a routine. Security. Security that lasts.

The horrid fear of failing, of losing her, nothing but a distant memory of what came before peace.

Hunter can protect his kid.

His kid.

His daughter.

No job Cid has ever given them, or can ever offer, will be enough to give them a chance like this.

These are the moving parts. The intricacies of a decision only made complicated by the fact that they cannot readily afford to burn bridges in an age where his family’s state of being isn’t always ruled by what they do or don’t want, but by the necessities of survival.

Maybe he is being too optimistic, too willing to assume the best will come out of this. Maybe he’s too eager, too desperate. But in that same vein, maybe Cid is not the only route for survival. If this is an option, a real opportunity, to give his family the freedom and security they deserve, to give his daughter the future he wants for her to one day experience, he doesn’t want to let this pass them by.

“Send a message to Cid. Tell her that we won’t be coming in as planned,” he says decidedly, moving his hand to rest over Omega’s shoulder. “And let Phee know that we’re in.”

Chapter Text

True to her word, Phee transfers both the initial credits and the necessary details of the job within minutes of receiving Tech’s confirmation that their squad is up to the task.

To the squad’s collectively pleasant surprise, her intel is far more specific than what any of them were anticipating. Hunter expects not much more than a written statement summarizing that of which she had explained to them over the holoprojector, and while that is a notably serviceable component, it’s only a fraction of the information that they’re given to work off of.

Phee provides them with a manifest of each individual Imperial shipyard on Seswenna, as well as the exact locations of each yard and patrol schedules. She’s given them codes - several - to bypass aerial security in the event that the Empire has tightened their grip on the sector without their knowing. She includes a drawn-up blueprint, albeit unfinished, of multiple small rooms and a few short corridors between them inside of the bunker, noting in the file that what she’s gone and passed over to them is only around the entrance of the facility, but that it was all that her ‘contact’ - who he supposes is this ‘Greez’ she had mentioned - was able to retrieve.

Alongside these blueprints is perhaps what makes Hunter most content with the fact that they chose this job over Cid; a set of coordinates, for the zone in which they’ll be able to find the entrance to the bunker somewhere under their feet and ‘in the dirt’. According to Tech, the coordinates are a range rather than an exact point on the map, however they are located in the middle of a small forest, fifteen klicks into the outskirts of a port town on the smaller side and nowhere near the bulk of the Imperial private property on the opposite side of the planet.

In the army, information this detailed was as few and far between as his squad being permitted any degree of autonomy; that is to say, never. They were created by the Kaminoans for the very purpose of overcoming the missions that the regs could not, due in no small part to a lack of viable intel. Hunter in particular, was created with the intention of tracking down Separatist military bases and droid depots for which the Republic couldn’t procure coordinates, as well as being able to fully dismantle these targets once located. Most of their earliest ops were exactly that, and so from the very beginning of his career as a soldier, Hunter became used to working off of little, if nothing.

He’s used to it, but he’s never liked it. After all his time in the field, fulfilling the intentions of his creators and those of the powerful above them who demanded success, he’s never been able to numb himself entirely to the underlying fear, however far back in his mind it may now be, of the total unknown. An abyss of possibilities, good and bad, ‘jate bal dush’, as Hunter once learned it said in Mando’a, - one of the few phrases he‘s retained - that leads to a just as unpredictable outcome over which he may ultimately have little control.

Regrettably, he is aware of how this fear has found methods of denoting itself in new ways, worse ways, as his life changes with time. He is self-conscious enough to know that it plays a stark role in his anxieties regarding Omega, and he wishes, hopelessly, that it wouldn’t. Raising a child is nothing if not uncharted territory, through which he has no guide. He tells himself, over and over again, that he doesn’t need one. That for her, he will figure things out, no matter the cost, and he believes in that; he is committed to that. But it frightens him, this vast unknown and the dangers that lurk within, because nothing tangible in his life has or ever will be guaranteed.

Perhaps this is what makes Phee’s gloriously clear-cut intel so refreshing.

Cid’s job details are rarely more than what was provided in the army, and therefore, less than ideal. Not only that, but she has the infuriating habit of leaving things out on purpose, and not because she doesn’t know. Thus, there is always a catch when they do something for Cid, and Hunter is, quite frankly, damn sick and tired of those. For the first time in his entire life, he feels like he knows enough about what to expect that he can allow himself to stew in confidence and optimism beforehand.

And so he sits comfortably on the floor of the bunkroom, leaning back against his footlocker propped up beside the far wall, sharpening his vibroblade on an old, dull whetstone, allowing the buzzing and humming of the Marauder whipping through hyperspace undisturbed to ring in his ears.

Although they departed Ord Mantell as soon as Phee made the transfer, - credits included - the calculated travel time between Ord Mantell and Seswenna is roughly two standard days, and four additional hours, even in hyperspace, planning to transfer to and utilize the Hydian Way once in range, and without accounting for the time needed to refuel somewhere in the middle of the transit. In other words, a lengthy ride from point aurek to point besh without anything to do in the meantime other than review the details and devise an approach strategy once they’re a few hours out from port, and maybe test Omega at Sabacc later when the lot of ‘em convene for rations.

Hunter is not impatient, nor are his brothers. He’s taken far longer trips than this in far smaller ships with nothing to keep his hands busy, crammed into seats too tight to allow for much movement at all, pressed arm to arm against his brothers, and surrounded by obstreperous machinery harsh enough to make his ears bleed and his skull feel as though someone were pounding down upon it with a hammer. He has stalked a raxshir from the time the sun had risen to the time it set; he’s been left folded over in a crate the height of his legs for twelve hours. As a cadet, he was always able to hide from the Kaminoans longest on the occasions he and his brothers chose to test their forbearance when it came time for testing.

Patience is a virtue, and he’s plenty good at it. He stares down at his vibroblade, running the edge of the knife over the whetstone in a slow, rhythmic sort of motion. He is acutely tuned into the quiet scraping sounds of the stone picking away the dull and cracked bits of metal along the sharp end of the blade, little flakes of dust flitting down onto his knee and collecting itself into a neat pile. He clutches the cool thick handle in his right palm, the feeling of the indentations around the width pressing into his hand.

He could spend the entire flight like this, thankfully mindful of the peace whilst busying himself with something productive that does all but drain his energy, happy to give his family the room to unwind for themselves.

Could.

But he won’t, if not because there is such a thing as sharpening one’s blade to a point of desecration, than because he is entirely aware that, somehow, there is something worth investigating going on in Omega’s room atop the gunner’s mount.

Technically, he’s already decided that it was worth looking into some fifteen-minutes ago, when he heard something clatter against her floor followed by a muttered ‘shoot!’, and a bit of frantic shuffling. Soon after they took off and made the jump to hyperspace hours ago now, Omega had announced that she was going to study in her room - much to Tech’s unmasked delight - to pass some time. Nobody protested, of course, glad to see her seeming eager to further her education, and hopefully refrain from becoming bored early on
in the flight.

Needless to say, she had been quiet for quite a while up until then, which he and his brothers assumed is due her habit of going ‘radio-silent’ if a topic happens to peak her interests, so the sudden battering around was enough to nearly make him startle at the abruptness of it. Truth be told, Hunter almost got up the moment that his attention was caught, to make sure she was alright, but before he did, she was mumbling to herself about being ‘super close’ and ‘trying again’, and the shuffling came to a halt almost as quickly as it had begun.

Determined not to let himself jump to the conclusion that she needs his help, and giving her a chance to either sort whatever this is out on her own or gather the courage to seek help on her own - if that is indeed the issue, as it often can be - before offering his assistance, Hunter made the choice to sit and listen in for a while longer to better gauge the situation, whatever it is. In the last few minutes that have followed, it’s been much the same thing, a pattern of noises and grumbled annoyance, scuffing around, and then silence, only to pick up from the top again.

He can tell by the pitch of her voice and the hurried repetition of the actions that she’s getting frustrated by now, and it’s at a point where he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t at least look into it. Sure, she’s gotten better at asking for help and he’s got to continue to reinforce that behavior, but he can’t sit around and wait for her to run herself ragged before anything is done about it, either.

Tossing the whetstone aside, allowing it to tumble and roll across the floor until coming to a stop at the wall, Hunter gets up to his knees, sheathing his vibroblade at the small of his back where it belongs whilst he’s in his civvies. He sighs, stretches out a small crick in his neck, stiff from sitting in the same position for as long as he has been, and pushes himself up to his feet without grabbing the bunk or otherwise to support his shifting weight.

He clears the distance between himself and the gunner’s mount in four large steps, striding out the open bunkroom door to find the hull altogether empty and the cockpit door shut. Last he knew, Tech was going to make some adjustments to Echo’s scomp arm to attempt to help with a bit of phantom pain the ladder’s been experiencing, while Wrecker had dozed off in the co-pilot’s chair. Based on what he can hear, tinkering and whirring and his brother’s unmistakable snoring, that seems to still be the case.

Approaching Omega’s room, Hunter pauses just as something clangs around on the floor again, louder now, and he can guess that it’s some variation of tool, light enough that it doesn’t bang around, and the pitch high enough that it’s most definitely metal on durasteel; metal hitting the bare floor underneath her sleep mat.

“Gah, come on!” Omega grumbles under her breath, hissing through her teeth, before hitting her hand - albeit without much force behind it - on the floor.

Assuredly, the situation is not good.

The curtain is drawn over the room halfway, and, intent on respecting what little privacy she’s granted in such close quarters with four men and no viable way of getting fresh air for the time being, Hunter raps his knuckles against the wall beside the curtain rather than sliding it open without her permission of his admittance. “Omega? You okay in here kid?”

Any noise at all on the other end, sans a small, disquieted gasp and sped-up breathing, is extinguished in an instant.

If he wasn’t starting to get a little concerned, not too fond of her secrecy and beginning to think that something may truly be wrong, he would find her sudden silence near amusing. But he counts each second as it passes, one- two- three- and Omega doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move, purposefully still behind the curtain, hidden from view. She doesn’t even acknowledge him. And he waits, giving her a chance to respond, whether by words or by action, her choice. She doesn’t. By choice.

“Everything good, Omega?”

Without her explicit allowance, he won’t enter or pull back the curtain anymore than it’s already drawn. It’s been his promise, as well as his brothers’, almost since Wrecker first set up Omega’s room, that unless there was an emergency, or they were checking in on her during her sleep cycle, then they won’t enter while she’s inside if the curtains closed. It was her request, one she’d been nervous to make, and she’s never said why, but she doesn’t have to; he knows that it’s got something to do with the Kaminoans, with Nala Sé, and the fact that no clone had a right to privacy on Tipoca City.

He understands it, maybe better than most, seeing as he was usually stolen away from his bunk without a warning for his experiments and testing, whereas the others were given notice. But he can practically feel the anxiety radiating off of his kid in her room, her breathing rapid and nervous. Something is wrong, and he isn’t just going to walk away-

“I’m fine, y-you can go back to uh- to what you were doing-“ her voice, pitched with apprehension as she stumbles over a few words, drifts through the curtain.

Hunter raises a brow, and hearing her reply doesn’t do anything to ease his worry, only contributes to his confusion. “Are you… sure? If you need any help in there-“

“No! Uh- I mean-“ Omega squeaks, apprehension replaced with a sense of culpability. “Don’t come in-“

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re not hurt?” he asks slowly, worriedly.

“No! I-“ Omega sucks in a breath. “I’m not, I promise,” she answers, and he can tell she’s being honest, then, thank the Maker.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“N-nothing, I’m just er- don’t worry, I’m fixing it…”

Hunter pauses, pursing his lips; he wasn’t under the impression anything had been broken to begin with.

She seems to realize this, too, gasping again before scuffing her knees closer to the curtain, her fingers picking at the edge where it’s opened, and sticking her head out around the side. A guilty grin plasters her face, all teeth and dimples and definitely up to something. “Hi,” she greets him sheepishly, eyes drifting back to behind the curtain and whatever it is that she’s got here.

Alright, now he allows himself the amusement of whatever this is, because it’s a hell of a lot better than any of the worst-case scenarios he was one bad step away from assuming had occurred. “Hey,” he replies shortly, unable to hide his own small smile.

“I can fix it,” she insists evenly, barely giving him the room to speak, still all smiles, eyes bright, and definitely not convincing herself, either. “I almost got it.”

Omega is an awful liar, as much as she tries on occasion, and sometimes he can’t decide whether he’s happy about that or not, - not that he WANTS his daughter to learn how to be a better liar - but right now, it’s just… funny, quite frankly.

Something is broken, and, courteous kid that she is, she’s trying to fix it on her own before anyone notices that it’s broken, or even missing. Things break on the Marauder all the time, mostly because the ship is heavily modified and thus requires additional maintenance than it would otherwise, but also because much of their equipment is far from being ‘new’. Whatever is broken now, has probably been one gust-of-air-too-strong away from breaking for a long while now, anyway. And Tech can probably fix it a lot quicker and a lot easier than Omega can alone.

This has happened before. Things break, and she tries to fix them by herself. Sometimes, she does, and none of them realize until later that it had ever been broken at all, nor that Omega had been fixing it. Other times, she doesn’t, and she’ll eventually ask for help. Regardless of the outcome, she’s not going to get into trouble for something being broken. They’ve told her that plenty of times already, but he knows she still feels a certain responsibility.

Aiming for nonchalance, Hunter leans against the side of the gunner’s mount, and Omega backs up as if to hide whatever it is that’s broken. It can’t possibly be that serious, he thinks, smiling waning slightly. “Do you want help, kid? I don’t mind.”

Omega stills, as if contemplating his offer for a beat, then shakes her head frantically. “I- um… it’s okay.”

Sighing through his nose, Hunter pulls his hands back from the gunner’s mount and lets them hang at his sides. He doesn’t want to push her to tell him, and cause things to get worse, but he doesn’t want her to further stress herself out, either. With her unique emotional situation, and her differing development, applying too much pressure is more or less a metaphorical death sentence. She still needs time to navigate the purpose of her feelings, and how to react, when things are overwhelming and new. He‘s willing to give her all the time and support she needs.

But he can hear the rushed pitter patter of her heart, a sound that he recognizes all too well as the beginnings of genuine upset; how can he leave her alone in good conscience, knowing that she’s this close to pushing herself to tears?

“Alright, ad’ika, it’s up to you,” he concedes, reaching up to ruffle her hair, causing her to bunch up her nose in that way she often does, cheeks pink. Project calm, he reminds himself. If she recognizes that he’s not upset about it, she’s more likely to be willing to ask for help, seeing that there’s nothing to get worked up by-

“Wait-“ Omega exclaims, thrusting her hand forward to grab his wrist. “I- um… okay. Please help,” she whispers, nearly pleading, eyes wide in desperation. “But you- uh, you have to come sit up here to do it, and- you can’t tell Tech, okay?”

Can’t tell Tech?

If it weren’t for her visible panic, then he would stop to ask why first, but it won’t matter if he does. She’s about to show him, and he’s sure he’ll be able to figure it out.

“As long as it’s not life-threatening, I’ll try my best,” he replies, hoping that’s good enough. He can’t promise her that Tech might not be brought into it for some reason or another, depending on what it is.

Omega pulls herself back behind the curtain again, hands fumbling to find whatever it is that’s broken on the floor behind her, and giving him the space he needs to join her in the gunner’s mount. Securing his foot on the first rung, he hoists himself up by the handles along the sides of the wall, grunting a little as he feels the muscles in his leg pull when he stretches them out to lock his knee and climb the rest of the way up.

Hunter only need use the first two rungs to be able to throw himself up to the top, keeping himself steady with his palms on the floor. He twists himself around to sit on the edge, legs dangling off the side, heels up against the wall, kicking the air as he settles.

Out the window, above where the turret rests outside, hyperspace swirls around them, like some weird semblance of natural light working in tandem with Omega’s illuminated string lights to give them the light they need to see. Not that Hunter needs much, his eyes easy to adjust and able to focus in the dark just fine, but it helps. She rolled her sleeping mat up and tucked it by the bottom of the window, Lula and her trooper doll on top, nice and neat. Echo’s desire for cleanliness really has rubbed off on her.

“Show me what’cha got,” he prompts, holding out a palm.

Omega keeps it behind her back, for a moment, biting her bottom lip, and Hunter waits, patiently, giving her the necessary time. A second passes in silence between them, before she moves her hands around, clutching the broken object in question tight. “I’m really sorry, it was an accident,” she murmurs, placing it in his hand.

Of all the things he suspected it might be, - a tool, or a trinket, or maybe one of her dolls had ripped - he wasn’t really expecting to have one of their datapads pressed into his hand.

One of Tech’s datapads, a voice that sounds vaguely like his brother’s helpfully supplies. Of course. ‘You can’t tell Tech.’

Wordlessly, he holds the damn thing up to get a closer look at it, unable to immediately discern what’s wrong with it. It feels perfectly fine, and at first glance, it looks the same as always. A little grimy, sticky on one side, but that’s hardly new. All of the buttons are where they’re supposed to be. When he flicks the switch on the side to turn it on, it works without stalling, however, he simultaneously finds the problem that Omega was insisting she was going to fix.

The screen’s been cracked. From one end to the other, the transparisteel that Tech used some years ago to reinforce the integrity of the machine, claiming that the default material used to make the screens wasn’t going to be strong enough for what he needs it for, is split in half by a long thread of a crack, splintering off in little branches here and there, across the width. The rest of the screen is still intact, and the last thing she must have been looking at - a holo of a wampa, beside a list of biological notes about its species - comes up on the display, but it’s disrupted by the damage to the center.

Honestly, he’s a little impressed. The screen isn’t shattered, and nothing sharp is sticking out, which means she hasn’t hurt herself, true to her word. So how she managed this, sitting in her room and studying, unless the clattering was due to a sudden urge to slam the poor thing against the floor, - which she would not do - he can’t wager a guess.

“How’d this happen?” he inquires casually, turning the datapad over in his hand.

Omega groans, tucking her chin into her chest, avoiding eye contact. “It was an accident, I was doing all the stuff Tech told me to do for today, and I finished all the quizzes he left me-“ she starts, picking at the hem of her shirt. “But I wanted to see if I could- uh- move it, ya know? Just a little bit.”

Hunter quirks a brow, putting the datapad down on his lap. “Move it?” he echoes back, sitting up a little straighter. “Last I checked, your hands were working just fine,” he teases, hoping to ease her out of some of her tension, in spite of how lost he feels.

“Well, yeah,” she giggles, just a little, and he’ll count it as a win. Then she hikes her shoulders up. “But I mean… not with my hands. With uh- I wanted to try to do it with the force, but it didn’t work.”

Oh.

Hm.

His initial thought, stupidly, lamely is that this wasn’t exactly the answer he was anticipating.

Not that he was anticipating any one specific answer in particular, a little too caught up in the fact that she’s broken transparisteel all on her own to theorize how just yet, but if there’s anything that Omega hasn’t been in the last few months, it’s open to the notion of actively utilizing the force in a physical capacity.

Omega made it very clear, after Ajan Kloss, that she wasn’t yet ready to try and wield the force proper. Any attempts by Tech to broach the topic, such as gentle inquiries as to whether or not she wants to give it a purposeful try on something small, or review any of the few Jedi texts he’s managed to pilfer out of the Empire’s archives to see if they have any meaning to her, have been politely but nervously declined. And that has ended the discussion each time. No pressure. If she’s not comfortable, then they won’t proceed.

Realistically, he and his brothers know they have to ensure that she has some level of control over her force sensitivity eventually. While there haven’t been any incidents that have seen the ‘light of day’ (so to speak) just yet, each time she’s wielded the force has been without intention, and the risk of that happening again still exists so long as she doesn’t have any control. An outburst at the wrong time could mean the worst; it could mean that the secret gets out, and someone, the Empire, learns of her abilities. She knows this, too.

But living under the radar, presumed dead, buys them some time to give her the space to mentally prepare herself to learn. So they’ve shelved it for a little while, ready to revisit it once she’s first gotten better in-tune with sensing the Galaxy around her, a luxury she thoroughly enjoys.

It does make sense that she’d want to give it a go in earnest after enough time has passed; she’s far too curious not to, in that same way that Tech is, never able to leave a mystery unsolved, a question unanswered, forever. But it seems sudden. Why now?

Instead of leaping ten steps ahead to ask the tough questions, Hunter leans back, conscious to curb any visible shock on his face. “Wanna start from the top, kid?” he says, folding his hands over his lap, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Well… it’s kinda silly,” she sighs, lifting her chin to look at him, curls bouncing behind her ears as she tilts her head, contemplating. “I was doin’ everything that Tech told me to, and reading about all these different animals and creatures and stuff,” she pauses, pulling at a thread at her shirt hem. “I finished it all up and I was getting it all the questions right on the quizzes!-“

“Naturally,” Hunter cuts her off, unable to resist.

Omega glows with pride, eyes sparkling, and continues on with her story. “I got bored, kinda, ‘cuz I was working on it for hours-“ and she draws out the ‘s’, rocking back on her rear. “And I read about this one animal called a… Akk Dog, I think, that’s also connected to the force, which is pretty cool. So I thought about uh- the force a bit- and I just thought… I mean… I’ve used the force by accident before, with the pirate and the strill, and the datapad weighs a lot less than those so I thought if I could do it by mistake to big stuff maybe I’ll be able to do it on purpose with little stuff since I’m better at sensing stuff now.”

She’s rambling, by the end of it, and gulps down a large breath once she’s finished with her long-winded explanation, apparently eager to get the details across so he doesn’t miss out on anything important.

He’s starting to get the bigger picture, easily. Appropriately, it was an intriguing animal that served as her motivation. Whatever works, he supposes, though he’s not… thrilled with the way she went about it... “If it didn’t work,” he asks, cautiously “Did you drop the datapad, then? How did it er- crack?” he adds, though not unkindly. Pure ‘need to know’.

“Well… I couldn’t push it or pick it up, but every time I tried it kinda… started shaking, I think,” she sighs, pressing her face into her hands, visibly embarrassed. “It was rattling against the floor and I could feel that I was making it do that but then I had to stop for a second ‘cuz I could just- I don’t know it’s like I can feel it when it doesn’t work and it… makes me head hurt, just a little bit,” she admits, muffled by her hands. He can hear her heart picking up its pace. “A-And then eventually i-instead of rattling i-it didn’t do anything when I- when I-I tried except for…”

“It cracked,” Hunter quietly finishes for her, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her rising anxiety is almost palpable.

“I d-didn’t mean- I don’t k-know h-how-“ she croaks out, voice quivering, stumbling over each word.

Crying.

Hunter pushes the datapad off his lap and hastens to shuffle closer to her, further into the gunner’s mount. “Omega,” he whispers, giving her shoulder a tiny squeeze to get her attention. She shakes her head into her hands, refusing to look at him, her back arching with the small, silent sobs that wrack her body. “Ad’ika, come here, kid,” he tries, desperately, the alarm of his heart breaking in his chest and the sinking in his gut, straining his voice. “Please.”

“I-I’m sorry,” she hiccups, lifting her head, cheeks melting into a deep ruddy red, eyes downcast and brimming with tears, only to wipe at them furiously with the heels of her hands. “I- I-“

“It’s okay, you’re okay, kid,” Hunter persists, pulling his hand away to open his arms up, offering his solace, whatever he can provide, whatever he can do, Maker help him, to make this better for her.

She hesitates, for a moment, before surging forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into the crook, head rested on his scarf over his shoulder. Absentmindedly, and unimportantly, he thinks he was right to anticipate that the odd accent of clothing would have some use, someday.

Wrapping his arms around her in kind, Hunter rubs one hands over her back, the other brought up to run his fingers amiably through her hair. She all but collapses against his chest, under his arms, choking out sobs while her own arms shake and her legs draw up nearer to her chest, in spite of the little space they have between them. Her hands grip at his bicep like a lifeline, clinging to the fabric of his shirt, clawing at nothing all too stable in material yet in search of exactly that.

The sergeant has done this many times before. Exactly like this, in this same place, in this same position, albeit not because of any identical incidents, but the same thing nonetheless. Due to nightmares, mostly, of which she shares very little details, content to let it out in silence, in his solace, without recounting what it was that drove her to such a state of panic. Sometimes, it’s panic alone, during the light of day or the light of hyperspace, overwhelmed by the Galaxy around her or too frustrated with something she doesn’t understand.

He’ll stay here as long as she needs, as always. If she needs another brother, too or instead, he’ll do that, as well. Whatever it is that will help alleviate her grief, he’ll do it for her. Any of them will. He only wishes that he could make it go away, somehow, pained to see his daughter so awfully upset, wishes he could carry the burden instead, if it would make he happy, as she deserves to be.

The otherwise unrealistic guilt he feels knowing that he can’t do that, knowing that nobody has the ability to simply abolish another’s mental strain as if it were nothing, doesn’t feel quite so unrealistic now. Not when her pain is a result of something that, truly, he does not understand. Not like nightmares or panic, both of which he’s experienced for himself and witnessed in his brothers time and again, where he knows how he can readily and effectively assist in a manner of unbridled preparedness.

But the force. Trepidation, as a result of the force, of which he understands - frankly - nothing prudent at all. How does he remedy that?

One thing at a time.

“Tech’s not gonna be mad, kid. You know that, right?” he murmurs, in the hopes that he can, perhaps, chase away her guilt. “He’s got another datapad for the being being. And he can definitely fix it, no problem. He’s fixed a lot bigger and a lot worse that Wrecker’s broken over the years,” he chuckles, tweaking her side.

Omega sniffles harshly. “I- I know- but h-he still trusted me t-to handle it- I-I- I feel really b-bad-“

“Kid. Tech’s not gonna get mad,” he says plainly, firmly. It’s difficult to make Tech really and truly angry; Hunter knows his brother well enough to know for certain that Omega is the last person who could ever make him genuinely cross with her. She’s made him just as soft now as the rest of her family. “I promise.”

She sniffles again, pausing, before nodding curtly into his shoulder, plain as that. “I’ll h-help him fix it,” she declares through tears, clutching his shirt a little tighter.

“I’m sure he’d love that,” Hunter replies, smiling and pressing a kiss into her blonde curls, Omega curling up closer, but the tension in her body seems to relax against him, somewhat. He lets his lips linger there, for several quiet seconds, on the top of her head, and she lets out a contented sigh, her heart rate evening out into something considerably more acceptable. Less distressed. Less distressing. He can feel his own body loosen up, relieved.

He holds her, for a moment. Let’s the rest of her tension bleed out, let’s her take the time she needs to move passed the adrenaline of panic.

The sergeant wonders, much to his chagrin, what this would have been like, now, if her attempt at wielding the force had gone… differently. Worse. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful that it isn’t, or horrified that it could have been. The screen only cracked, but it could have shattered. The sheen of the sharp screen overtop could have gone flying, and hit her in the chest, her face, her eye. The whole datapad could have exploded from the pressure that she was exerting through the force (if that is even how it works, because he hasn’t got any clue). She could have moved something entirely different than her target. Anything.

All without supervision, or precautionary measures being taken to provide her with the attentive safety that they could have provided if she had only asked. None of them would have denied her an opportunity to test her abilities in the safety of the ship in hyperspace had she just asked. Not that he holds that against her, not by any means. She couldn’t have anticipated this sort of outcome anymore than anyone else. But she could have gotten hurt, and he wouldn’t have been right beside to protect her. And then what?

‘Then you lose.’

Determined to bite that thought in the ass before it has the momentum to gain traction, and thereby affect Omega, Hunter clears his throat, sliding his hand down to his little girl’s chin to coax her out of hiding against his chest and get her to look up at him. “Hey, one thing,” he mutters, aiming for serious, and she must hear it in his voice, or feel it, - sense it in his mind - because she lifts her head, blinking away tears still caught on her lashes that roll down her cheeks to her jawline, sitting by her chin, and stares up at him with furrowed brows.

“If you wanna practice er- ya know, moving stuff around with your mind, in the future, do this old man a favor and ask for help, okay?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s begging, trying to wriggle some levity into his tone. He’d hate to sound scolding, and make her feel worse. “Tech’s got those old files… I think. And Echo used to spend a lotta time around the Jedi. Plus, any of us can make sure that if anything happens, we’ll be there for backup, just in case,” and Omega tilts her head to the side. “I don’t want ya to get hurt, that’s all.”

“Okay, promise! I think…. I might wanna practice a little bit more- ‘cuz I wanna learn…” she grins bashfully.

Hunter ruffles her hair. “That’a girl. Just remember, gotta be careful, so let’s keep it-“

“-to the ship only, I know,” she holds her chin up a little higher, and she giggles. It’s contagious. He can feel a laugh rising in his throat, rumbling his chest.

Just like that, Omega deflates, unfurling her knees to stretch them out in front of her. She fumbles for the broken datapad on the floor, holding it up in front of her to give it a once over, and signs heavily through her nose.

Meanwhile, Hunter tunes into the cockpit, listening for whatever it is his brothers are up to. Wrecker is still asleep, he finds, however, the sounds of mechanic repair, - the buzzing and chirping and drilling - are gone. Echo is saying something, his voice floating closer and closer to the door, Tech shooting back some short answer a little further off.

‘Thanks. Hope this helps… it’s been pretty bad lately. I thought it was getting better, too…’

‘I will adjust it further if you find the need for such.’

‘Appreciate that.’

Then the cockpit door opens, to reveal Echo, rubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand, trudging out into the hull.

Best to use the opening while he’s got it. Hunter taps Omega on the shoulder, and she whips her head back to look at him. “Tech’s in the cockpit, if you wanna go talk to him now,” he suggests noncommittally. “Sooner the better, right?”

The little girl nods sharply, eyes drawn into a serious expression. It’s more endearing than anything, but maybe that’s just the ‘father’ talking.

Wordlessly, she clambers over his lap, lowering one foot down to the topmost rung of the ladder leading up to her room, then the other foot, tucking the datapad under her arm and grabbing Hunter’s knee for balance. She makes her way down the ladder, a tad too fast for his liking, scurrying over one rung after the other, until she makes it to the second closest to the bottom, and jumps the rest of the way, feet hitting the floor with a gentle thud.

“Thanks Hunter!” she chirps, grinning, and fixing her grip on the datapad. Before he has a chance to respond, pushing himself closer to the edge of the gunner’s mount, she turns on her heel and makes for the cockpit in an earnest little jog.

Poor Echo appears startled as she darts by him nearly colliding with his side, and throwing a quick “Hello, Echo!” his way.

And then she’s gone, out of sight, hidden by the walls of the cockpit and the door closing behind her.

Echo blinks, turning his head up to find the sergeant, meeting him with a questioning gaze. Hunter can only smile, and shrug. He’s fascinated, even now, by how much energy his kid has, and how quickly her mood can change when he - when any of them - says the right thing. He’s not sure he ever remembers being that… naive. That cheerful. He’ll do anything to preserve that for as long as he can, as long as she’s still a kid.

And this job- those credits, they can do that. They can have that.

Hunter is going to secure her damn childhood, and he’ll sooner die than fail.

Chapter Text

“We are coming up on Seswenna,” Tech announces from the cockpit, tone indifferent in that way it always is when he’s delivering such updates.

For Hunter, however, it is the greatest thing he’s heard in two whole days.

Not to say that transit has been rough. Anything but. In fact, The remainder of the trip is, all in all, rather uneventful and incredibly smooth.

After Omega scurries off to find Tech, Hunter tunes out the rest of the ship for the sake of granting them their due privacy. He’s not sure exactly what’s said or how long the discussion goes on for, but he does know that - as he had promised - Tech is hardly upset with her at all, and the two of them are able to fix it without much hassle throughout the second day in hyperspace. Almost as abruptly as the issue came about, it was thoroughly mended. No harm, no foul.

After that settled, the lot of them sat down for a debriefing of sorts. Seswenna is new territory for all of them, except for Echo, and even then, he only had one op out here early in the war. While there isn’t much to be said for the planet to begin with, Tech still gave them all an essential rundown of what to expect: terrain, wildlife, plant life, culture, and the like. Hunter isn’t sure he retained much about the former three, but the ‘culture’, or ‘civilization’, or whatever the appropriate label is, was well worth noting above all else.

As Tech told them whilst they were debating whether or not to take the job in the first place, Seswenna is near the Hydian Way, meaning that it’s less of a locale for those wanting to settle down, and more of a fuel stop for those ‘passing through’. The majority of the few and far between who do live here, - a variety of sentient species who have moved with time - make their livings in the port towns accordingly, selling necessary supplies, food, and otherwise fundamental goods to anyone who comes through. They tend not to do much traveling for themselves, either, too caught up in the constant hustle and bustle that comes with their line of work to make time for much else. Simple folk with the need only to stay on their feet.

Their ‘clientele’, on the other hand, range anywhere from spice dealers and smugglers to wealthy collectors and traveling individuals on their way somewhere more important. They come and they go, sometimes staying the night, or two, but never longer; the ports ought to clear on a consistent basis to keep up with the constant demand for somewhere to refuel. They don’t waste time talking, and they fly under the radar, paying the credits required of them to move on without drawing attention.

In other words, Seswenna is occupied by those who want to mind their own business and leave everyone else to their’s. Perhaps not an ideal crowd, and this still leaves wide room for incidents, of which there are plenty. In this Galaxy, that risk will always exist. However, their squad isn’t planning on spending all that much time in the port town itself as is. So long as they keep their heads down, and keep walking, then Hunter hopes they’ll go on unbothered. Besides, they’re technically a part of this sort of crowd now, anyway. Mercenaries for the time being, aiming to fly under the radar, uninterested in problems that don’t concern them.

And he can guarantee that well over half of this crowd is just as keen to stay out of the Empire’s sight lines.

Together and alone, in an eerie way.

He’ll do best not to overthink that.

In between eating and strategy meetings, Hunter keeps himself busy by reviewing the bunker’s blueprints on his own time. Phee says that they aren’t even close to a full layout, but knowing where it is that he’s walking into, especially a facility of this nature, is just as important as having to navigate it once they get inside. Every little bit that he can commit to his memory beforehand helps. Besides, depending on how much experience, or lack thereof, this kid ever had in the Galaxy, the rest of the bunker may not be anymore complicated than the entrance.

Now that they’re dropping out of hyperspace and minutes away from touching down upon the planet, the sergeant is satisfied that he’s gotten it all down, mapped out in his brain. Not to say that they won’t still carry everything with them on Tech’s datapad, but in the event they split up or get separated, he’ll have a better chance of getting them back to where they need be faster.

With such a smooth ride through hyperspace under their belt, both physically speaking and within the ship, on top of all the mission intel that he’s committed to memory, he has to admit that his confidence is, perhaps, bolstered. It is a still a strange and foreign feeling, this kind of self-assuredness, and his mounting motivation. Yes, strange indeed, but hardly unwelcome.

But he is restless, there is no doubt about that. He wants to get this over and done with by the end of seven standard rotations. Not that Phee has given them any sort of time limit, just that Hunter is, admittedly, keyed up and ready to get moving in earnest. The reward and its results are waiting on the other end, and feeling horribly far away with every passing second that they aren’t actively on their feet and moving. It isn’t often that Hunter can say he personally comprehends Omega’s energy for all the boundlessness that it’s worth, but he certainly does now.

He cannot stop his fingers from tapping idly against his knee as he sits in one of the seats along the wall between the hull and the cockpit. He’s opting to wait out here, rather than in the cockpit with Tech, Echo and Omega, the ladder two of whom were engaged in a game of Sabacc that he’s fairly sure Echo was not winning last he listened in.

He is content instead to listen to the Marauder again, a light popping in his ears that is indicative of breaking a planet’s atmosphere. He can feel the slight change in pressure under his feet and in his head, - one that used to give him awful headaches, years ago - and he sits up a little straighter, pressing his other hand over his mouth and letting out a long sigh through his nose. The churning and whirring of the landing gear shifting under the floor, and the light clicking of the wings beginning to fold upwards towards the sides of the ship vibrates at the back of his head.

It is disrupted, for a moment, by another noise. Two heavy feet hitting the ground, and the creaking of a bunk; Wrecker getting up. He’s been knocked out for hours, taking the first watch cycle last evening and never having gotten up with the rest of them when it should have been over. Nobody bothered to wake him up, either, not all that far from him having to get up out of necessity anyway. Might as well let him rest rather than make him ill-tempered due to a lack thereof.

Casting a glance at the bunkroom door, Hunter waits in relative silence for his brother to emerge, listening to his footsteps get louder as they become closer, silent when they pause somewhere nearby on the opposite side of the door, then shuffle about the room before he finally makes the decision to emerge. The door slides back to reveal Wrecker, half-alive and in the middle of a large yawn, before he ducks out under the trim and into the hull.

“Mornin’, got your beauty sleep in, princess?” Hunter remarks, teasing, a sly smirk creeping up his lips.

Eyes narrowed, Wrecker throws him a sort of proud, unashamed look in return. “I slept just fine, thanks,” he replies, a challenging lilt to his voice. “Besides, I ain’t gotta sleep to look pretty. This is my natural look Sarge.”

“Uh huh,” Hunter drawls, though the grin he is incapable of suppressing betrays him.

“It’s true. Don’t get all jealous ‘cuz I don’t gotta put a tonna effort into my hair like you do.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you don’t have any hair, Wreck.”

“Exactly. So I don’t have’ta worry ‘bout it.”

Brows climbing up his forehead, Hunter chuckles, pushing himself out of his seat. It’s been a long while since he can remember last trading jokes with Wrecker like this. Maybe it’s because he’s in a good mood, riding on a rare high of uninterrupted conviction, maybe it’s solely because giving him a hard time for the hell of it was the first thing that came to mind as per a greeting, but it feels nice, messing around for a moment.

As cadets on Kamino, ragging on one another and messing around was - more or less - the only thing they found comical. Jokes or gags at one another’s expense, in particular, got a laugh out of the lot of them. If he was a nat born with a childhood, he would say things like ‘things were simpler back then’, but things never really have been simple for them, then or now. That aside, poking fun at his brothers is a fairly natural thing for him, knowing where to hit ‘em where it hurts without crossing a line into outright nasty.

“Yeah well, cheap excuse,” Hunter replies, waving him off, approaching his brother with a light-footed caution, knowing where this sort of teasing can lead if he gets too close; that is, a headlock, and Hunter ends up flipped over on his back begging to have his life spared. Humorous when they were cadets, painful on his spine nowadays. He’s getting too old for that, though he suspects Wrecker never will. “Regardless, we’re a couple’a minutes from landing. You’re just on time.”

Wrecker stretches one arm over his head, stifling a yawn. “We’re done with those borin’ debriefs, right?” he asks, eyes pleading. “Isn’t this s’pposed to be an easy gig? Why’d Tech gotta tell us all about the plants and stuff?” he grumbles at the same time as he cracks his neck.

The sergeant merely shrugs. “Ya know how he is, thorough. It’s for the best we cover all the bases, anyway and you know it. But no, we’re finished with debriefs.” And Wrecker sighs through his nose, shoulders sagging forward in what can only be relief.

“Well, you just tell me when I getta blow somethin’ up. You promised,” he rumbles back, all sincerity.

“Of course, Wreck.”

Something about Wrecker, is that he has never been fond of the ‘nitty gritty’. He doesn’t need or want all of the details and schematics and the shot for shot logistics of any give job in order to complete it. Much like Omega, he’s quick to get bored with things that don’t interest him enough or that he doesn’t need know out of some sort of necessity. Unlike Omega, those things tend to be new information such as that of which Tech presents them with, like plants or maps or history lessons on just about anything and everything that invites one.

It isn’t because he can’t or won’t understand it, but because the Kaminoans created Wrecker with an acute sense of aggression that is noticeable in the way that he handles himself on the battlefield; up close and personal, ready to take on whatever it is that’s thrown at him. As a result, he was taught to rely on his strength, and his hands, for most things, and, as a result, likes it when whatever it is he’s doing is hands-on. He likes to learn by doing, spend his time busy with activities and jobs that keep him physically engaged. Ironically, he’s about as gentle as they come, good with animals and children and delicate explosives in ways that defy how he is perceived.

Wanting to work nimbly with his hands is a side effect of his mutation in the same way that Tech’s lessened emotional capacity is for him. It directly contradicts everything else about his enhancement that was intended, meanwhile, this was not meant to happen at all. The freaky long-necks considered it to be a flaw, in spite of the fact that it never once proved a detriment to his performance in battle, and Hunter and his brothers spent many days and many nights convincing him that it’s just as good a part of him as the rest. Nothing wrong with needing to do something on one’s own to best learn.

That is why, to accommodate for his propensity to get agitated when there isn’t anything productive for him to get his hands on during a mission, Hunter has always made sure to give him first dibs on what they’ve come to refer to as ’search and destroy opportunities’.

It is more or less exactly what it sounds like: when they need arises for something to be blown up or broken down, Wrecker gets to do it. There are very few circumstances that would make this rule null and void, and even less instances that actually have. Therefore, Hunter and Tech have promised Wrecker that in event the bunker is sealed by way of a lock that needs to be blown off, it’s all his to deal with as he sees fit.

It has been quite a while since he last got to blow something up, after all. He’s owed a bit of fun.

“Oh, boss, real quick I gotta ask ya-“

Hunter tilts his head up to look at Wrecker, and in the same moment, Tech’s voice cuts through the hull from the voice from the cockpit. “There is something of a back up in the port, I will idle and await a clearing among the traffic to avoid any collisions,” his brother calls down the corridor between them. “It appears we have arrived during a busy departure time.”

Wonderful. Of everything to slow them down, even by a few minutes, it’s damn air traffic. At the very least, let it be something remotely exciting, like a splox infestation or an angry dire-cat in town. If this is the Galaxy’s way of mocking him for some reason or another, he has to admit that he’s a little insulted.

“Fine,” he turns his head towards the cockpit, just barely able to make out the faint shadows of Echo and Omega sitting nearby against the floor, and yells over, albeit with a subdued volume. They aren’t all that far away from each other, anyway. “But once there’s an opening-“

Tech leans over then in the pilot’s chair so that his head comes into view enough for Hunter to see his goggles, while his eyes remain hidden behind the yellow lenses by distance and reflection. “Do not tell me how to fly,” he deadpans, though evidently halfhearted.

Hunter throws his palms up in a placating gesture, shrugging with one shoulder. “Still your sergeant, Tech,” he jokes, grinning.

From across the ship, Tech responds with only a mock salute that, were Omega not present, probably would have been a crude gesture. Said little girl giggles and although he cannot see her, Hunter knows subconsciously that there’s a huge smile on her face to match. Even Echo elicits an amused sort of snort at his brothers’ antics.

Hunter finds himself offhandedly slipping back into the thought, that if they can have this all the time, if this is domesticity, then he doesn’t want anything more.

When Tech next turns back out of sight again, shaking his head the whole way through, Hunter breathes a chuckle and looks back to Wrecker, expecting him to look just as amused if not preparing to further poke fun at Tech, too. He is slightly caught off guard, however, to find his brother appearing largely the opposite. He appears almost deathly serious, a small frown creasing the corners of his eyes, his arms folded over his chest. He’s watching Hunter with a contemplative gaze, as if waiting to say something though wholly unsure of himself.

The expression that he wears only when something is bothering him.

“Wreck, somethin’ wrong?” Hunter asks, voice low in the event that his brother doesn’t want anyone else to know, but shamefully uneven as he struggles to comprehend the unexpected shift in the mood.

Wrecker sighs, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I uh- can we talk real quick, Sarge? Outta the way, I mean,” he says, gesturing to the cockpit with his other hand and giving a vague sort of wave. “Don’t wanna bother everyone else and I gotta… ask ya somethin’.”

Hunter feels his contentment melting away into an apprehensive concern. It isn’t often that Wrecker talks like THAT. Looks like THIS. And it is so terribly sudden, isn’t it? Where it’s coming from and why, Hunter hasn’t got a clue. Everything was fine just a moment ago, at least he thought it was. Wrecker seemed fine. Yet here he is, staring at the sergeant with a piercing wariness so horribly rare and terribly unlike him. He isn’t messing around, nor is he in the mood to. “Uh- yeah, sure,” Hunter replies, lamely, too stunned to think of anything better to say.

Wordlessly, he follows Wrecker back into the bunkroom, gut clenching with a sense of uneasiness. He can count on one hand the amount of times that Wrecker has ever done anything like this; that is, pull Hunter aside, wanting to speak in private away from prying eyes and ears, either out of a place of courtesy for his siblings or anxiety regarding any one of them. What’s worse, is that he tends to be right, in whatever capacity it’s warranted. His worry exists with reason, and they’d be foolish to take it lightly.

Wrecker smacks the panel on the inner wall with one large hand, both closing the door behind them and turning on the overhead light at the same exact time. And the moment that the door clicks shut against the lock, and they are concealed within from the rest of the squad he spins on his heel to face Hunter, the pair of them nearly colliding when the latter moves to give himself more room between his looming brother and the wall at his back.

“I know why you wanna do this job so bad,” Wrecker starts, not giving him the chance to say anything first, desperate but hardly unkind, as if he’s been sitting on it for days.

And Hunter thinks maybe he has, the way his eyes falls to the floor in an unmistakable sign of a man unchained from a burden that he has carried patiently on his shoulders by his own volition, a heavy sigh escaping his nose. But it shocks the sergeant all over again, limbs tensing and eyes bulging out of his skull. He feels a sinking sensation at the front of his skull, like the beginnings of a dull headache caused by stress, all unsurety and wondering with hesitant curiosity what comes next.

He is not left waiting longer than a few seconds (and he counts them, one, two, three, in an attempt to keep himself grounded in the face of something he wasn’t expecting). “I’m not really good with numbers or nothin’ like that but I know… I know that twenty-thousand is a whole lotta credits,” he goes on, staring Hunter dead in the eyes. “It’s not gonna be as much as we woulda got on Serenno, but it’s a lot. And you got that same face on your face that you had last time, too. Like, if we get these credits, then you know what yer gonna wanna do with ‘em, ‘cuz we’re gonna have enough for it. Or for the start of it. And I know yer goals haven’t changed since she came along here. So it’s gotta be the same, isn’t it?”

Maker help him, Hunter wishes he could read Wrecker’s damn tone, the emotion behind his voice. Yet he couldn’t identify it if his life depended on such a thing, his brother’s voice so painfully, forcefully even, a deliberate attempt to project a confidence behind his words. He can’t tell if this is an accusation, or a confrontation, or both. “Wrecker I-“

“You wanna take the money and you wanna go hide out, find a place to live like Cut and Suu did,” he says, and Hunter snaps his mouth shut. Whether out of obligation to respect his unusual bout of seriousness, or fear of saying the wrong thing when he doesn’t know if Wrecker’s upset or not, he isn’t sure. “Last time, Echo called it hidin’, right? You wanna go hide, to protect Omega from the Empire, and try ‘n give ‘er a life like a regular kid, don’tcha?”

Another something about Wrecker, is that he is, in many ways, an antithetical figure to Tech. While they both possess a uniquely perceptive view of the Galaxy, Wrecker’s is centered around the emotional needs and thoughts of others rather than the physical and factual aspects of their existence. He has always had a knack for knowing how others feel without having to ask, and picking up on the subtler ‘social cues’ that even someone like Omega, who thrives on interaction and craves connection, tend to miss.

It’s always made him an empathetic man, easiest to talk to despite his intimidating demeanor and otherwise boisterous attitude. It’s the reason that Omega was most comfortable with him, first. Even Crosshair was never able nor willing to say that it wasn’t true. Even Crosshair, - about as outwardly unfeeling as they come - believed in and appreciated Wrecker’s ability to help when there was nobody else who could, though he never said so as bluntly as that. The Kaminoans considered this less of a flaw, but still an ‘imperfection’ nonetheless. Wrecker, however, never needed anyone to reassure him that this wasn’t true. The results speak for themselves, time and again.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised that Wrecker’s seen right through him probably this entire time. Not that Hunter was ever trying to hide his intentions from anyone, he simply figured that they’d openly discuss what they’re actually going to do with the credits one they actually had them in their hands. Maybe that’s been an oversight on his part, and maybe that’s the excuse he’ll use if Wrecker happens to notice that his palms are damp with a sheen of sweat, though in his defense, he wasn’t expecting THIS to happen either.

The sergeant takes a deep breath in through his nose and tries to match his brother’s affecting stature to the best of his abilities in spite of the fact that he’s nowhere near Wrecker’s height. “Omega should have a real childhood. At least something better than job to job, running from the damn law,” he replies earnestly, biting the inside of his cheek. It’s all he can do not to unintentionally come across as argumentative, as he’s still uncertain as to what Wrecker’s stance is on the issue. “But the Empire is cracking down on the Galaxy every day. It won’t be long before they get too close, and as her-“ he pauses, sighing, and ignoring Wrecker’s knowing stare. “Look, anything I have to do protect her, I will. If we can find somewhere to lay low long term-“

“I’m in.”

“…What?” Hunter murmurs back, like an old astromech with a broken processor, unable to come up with anything better.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Wrecker’s lips. “‘Mega should have a safer life, like ya said. I dunno what I’d do if somethin’ bad happened to ‘er…” he mutters, tilting his head to one side, than the other. “And I’m kinda done with… fightin’ like this, I guess. Not ‘cuz I don’t like blowin’ somethin’ up or beatin’ Imps, but this ain’t the kinda fightin’ I was made for. Never thought I wouldn’t wanna fight anything, but it’s better for Omega if we hang out somewhere nice for a while, and keepin’ all you guys alive sounds a lot better than runnin’ around hopin’ it’ll work out.”

If Wrecker is trying to keep Hunter speechless, he’s doing a damn good job at it. Just as much as he wasn’t expecting this conversation to begin with, he wasn’t expecting his brother to suddenly pour is heart out, either.

“We ain’t in the war anymore. We can choose what we do, right? Well that’s what I wanna do,” he goes on, shrugging.

Hunter shifts his weight to one foot and blinks owlishly. “You’re sure?” he sputters before he knows what’s come over him. “Not that we have the time to talk about it all now but- it’ll be a big change, Wreck, and I’m not gonna force anyone to come with us-“

“Don’t be dumb, Sarge. We’ll do anything for ‘Mega, too,” Wrecker answers, expression softening. “‘Sides, it’s what I want, not ‘cuz you want me to. Mean it.“

Shit.

It’s not like Wrecker’s compassion surprises him. Even if he has yet to formerly bring this discussion to his brothers, he easily could have anticipated this kind of a response from him, if not something akin to it. Of course he’s going to put the needs of his siblings, of his little sister, before anything else. But Wrecker never talks about how he feels regarding their current state of living, other than the occasional complaints about their lack of food, or the tedious jobs from Cid that make all of them grumble at their feet. He’s taken things as they come.

Wrecker’s declaration of solidarity, a reminder of his brother’s frequent support is, in a way, a reassurance he didn’t know he needed. How willing he is to move forward with their lives given the opportunity, even though he is wholly aware that things will be different, - given that it is something of an extreme for a squad of soldiers gone AWOL, one he plans to deal with in earnest when the time comes - is touching. He can feel that foreign confidence, his unbridled determination, swelling in his chest. Sometimes, he thinks, Wrecker isn’t given enough credit.

“Heh, yeah. Thanks, Wreck,” Hunter chuckles, unable to suppress a grin as he taps his brother on the arm with a light fist. And here he was, concerned and nervous when Wrecker pulled him aside, only to walk away somehow feeling better than he already was.

And he’ll feel even better still once they get the hell outta the stale, recycled air of the ship, and on with the job proper.

As if on cue, the ship jolts abruptly, nearly knocking Wrecker off balance at the sudden movement jostling the pair of them about. He catches himself on the wall, eyes wide and startled as he fumbles for purchase. At the same time, the thrusters roar loudly to life as if behind Hunter’s ears. The air traffic must have cleared; either that, or Tech’s become impatient and is making a break for it regardless. Both are equally possible, and Hunter is fine not knowing the answer so long as the Marauder’s alarms don’t start ringing.

He palms the controls and slides out into the hull ahead of Wrecker, who grumbles under his breath about how a warning from up front would’ve been appreciated before they started moving again. Peering across the ship through the cockpit doors left open and out the viewport, Hunter is met with the boring sight of a towering wall of gray; the docking bay, he assumes. He can tell even from a distance that it isn’t in all that great shape, a sizable dent sitting at his eye level.

The ship comes to a complete stop, engines sputtering off power. “We’re here!” Omega cries excitedly as she comes bolting out the cockpit, Echo and Tech following closely behind her, the former with a mildly defeated look on his face that tells the sergeant his kid won the game of Sabacc, as he suspected. She’s already fully geared up and ready to go, helmet atop her head pushing her curls down against her forehead, her fingers fumbling to adjust the strap that fastens her bow securely to her back. “Are we gonna get to look around?” she asks next, bright eyes wide with innocent expectation when, after a few seconds of wild flickering, they inevitably find Hunter and stay there.

“No more than we have to,” he replies in kind, loathe to disappoint her just as much as in any other such circumstance, but he’s sure she’ll get her fair share of ‘exploration’ out of whatever they find in the bunker. It doesn’t take anything impressive to satiate her need to be learning something new, anyway. “We should stay on track. There’ll be plenty to see as we move along, don’t worry.”

Luckily, she doesn’t seem too beat up about it, bouncing in place on her toes. “Then c’mon, let’s go!” She backtracks several steps without turning around until she’s beside the ramp, vibrating with energy.

“Alright kid, slow down,” he chastises, though he doesn’t really mean it.

Hunter grabs his helmet off the top of the nearby crate where it was last deposited and replaces it over his head, eyes taking a moment to adjust as the HUD view comes to life. He hooks his pack to his backplate, the several added pounds getting nothing more than a vague acknowledgment from the back of his mind as he adjusts briefly to that, too. Last he takes quick stock of himself: blaster holstered at his side, knife at the small of his back, grappling line hooked to the outside of his pack just to play it safe, torch clipped to his belt. Everything precisely in its place, then.

Flicking his gaze around the room, he gives his squad a once over and is pleased to find the lot of them fully geared up, ready and waiting for his order to depart, Wrecker cracking his neck as he brushes passed his brothers to reach Omega, tapping the top of her helmet and getting a giggle out of her when the rim falls a little further over her face. Echo stands patiently with arms crossed beside Tech, who taps away at his datapad something fierce.

Best not waste anymore time. Who is he to keep anyone waiting?

“Well,” the sergeant starts, clearing his throat and giving a curt nod as he approaches the ramp, grinning beneath his helmet. “Let’s get treasure huntin’, then.”

Chapter Text

“He says that we are required to pay an upfront port fee of thirty credits, as well as an additional one-hundred credits when we depart, and another one-hundred for each new rotation during which we are docked,” Tech translates for the ugnaught port clerk through his visor, the words appearing on the HUD in front of him. “However, they do not need to scan our ship in. It is against there, ehem, ‘privacy policy’.”

The ugnaught idling behind the small terminal cut into the wall of the port entrance to collect tolls, looks the group over passively, awaiting either the credits, or - Hunter suspects - a blaster to the face.

The port is nothing all too fancy. Tall gray walls of durasteel littered in rust from the surface up, corners bashed in by Maker only knows what, and dented by years of disregard and mistreatment. A hard, off-white - and horribly filthy - permacrete pavement is laid even across the ground, chipped and cracked with few signs of repair, the occasional harsh discoloration, and stains that could, quite frankly, be anything at all. Visually unsettling, sure, but he’s seen both better and worse. There’s no real point in over-thinking it.

Hunter fishes around blindly in his belt pocket for the thirty credits. In truth, the docking fees are significantly cheaper than he expected them to be, though he supposes it makes sense for a town that constantly has ships coming and going and paying. The ‘privacy policy’, too. Certainly saves them heaps of trouble from those who don’t want to be ‘on the record’, of which they get plenty. It’s definitely easier for them to simply ignore ship signatures altogether when well over half the pilots they’d have to ask would kill them for it.

He find the credits buried at the bottom of the pouch and reaches over Tech’s chest to drop them on the counter between them and the ugnaught. The short man counts them at he picks them up, then counts a second time as if skeptical, before nodding, seeming pleased (though it’s hardly easy to tell how an ugnaught feels based purely on their expressions given the nature of their appearance). He grumbles out something, punctuated by a squeal.

“He says that we are clear to leave, and thanks us for our cooperative business exchange,” Tech says, flipping his visor back up over the top of of his helmet. Hunter nods to the ugnaught, and the ugnaught mirrors the gesture shortly, before swiping the credits and turning away from them to tend to something at the back of the terminal.

“Let’s get going then,” Hunter says plainly at the same time that he moves to usher Omega and Echo along from behind him. The little girl does not need to be told twice, placing herself between Tech and Hunter as the former spins on his heel and makes for the town on the other side of the crumbling stone archway separating the docking bay from the rest of the property.

They fall perfectly in line with little fanfare, all second nature; Tech with the coordinates and a rough map on his datapad will lead them through town the fastest, with Omega behind him placing her securely in the middle to maximize her protection, followed by Echo and himself, while Wrecker takes up the rear as a means of flank defense. Echo remains on the left while Hunter the right, dominant hands - and Echo’s only remaining flesh arm - facing outward for ease of response in the event of an unexpected attack. Standard formation nowadays, and effortlessly efficient.

Hunter watches Omega for a moment, and the way in which she walks about with a skip in her step. She looks around from one side to the other taking in her surroundings. Sometimes, when they’re out like this, he wonders what goes on inside her head. Is she constantly picking up on things, hence the reason she can’t keep still, or with eyes forward? Or does she only sense particular individual things here and there, and the cause of such energy is as simple as her adolescent curiosity at work? But he won’t ask; he’s not sure she’ll know for sure herself, anyway.

Passing under the archway into the town, the natural light from Seswenna’s sun becomes more pronounced out in the open. His HUD view adjusts automatically to block out any preventative light from making it difficult to see ahead.

The town is an odd oasis of dark tans and light grays. Short beige buildings that look like shops or are fitted at the bottom with stalls, but appear to contain apartments up top, line the roads to the east and the west. A series of three smaller, more narrow smooth dirt roads run northward ahead of them, fit with what he could loosely describe as an ‘industrial complex’; slightly taller, larger, sturdier looking buildings fit with what appears to be an equivalent to bay doors, some connected by overhead passes across the roads in between them. He suspects that this is where they keep the fuel and goods that they carry, and one can tell quite clearly that they were never a part of the original infrastructure of this location.

Not that he expected bonafide cities, if Tech’s descriptions during the debriefing, and the fact that the bunker is in a forest short walking distance from their targeted dock are anything to go by, but it seems slightly more… primitive than what he had pictured. Less developed, and more so ‘built on’ without any of the older structures having been replaced in the process. And it’s smaller than he anticipated, too. The port itself takes up most of the property, with some - if he had to guess - thirty or forty docking bays to accommodate customers, almost all of which were apparently full when they landed.

If it weren’t for the nature of this place, and if Hunter knew better as to what a small but ‘nice’ town looked like, he might have described this as ‘quaint’, although that doesn’t feel all too appropriate.

As for whether or not the town is by any means busy, the answer is an easy and immediate no. Half the shops hardly seem to have opened up yet for the day, and the people in the streets are fairly few and far between. A handful of Zabrak are minding their own business in an alley, a Pantoran woman is sweeping the street in front of what he assumes is her home. It’s still early morning, based on the position of the sun. This world runs on the same rotation schedule as Ord Mantell, so really, it’s just luck that they arrived before what he suspects will be a rush later in the day once the locals have opened up shop.

“Interesting place,” Hunter remarks to nobody in particular, cocking a brow and glancing over to Echo at his left, who looks just about as shocked by its obviously strange and mundane existence as Hunter feels. “And nothing else around, either.”

Tech hums thoughtfully from up front without stopping or turning to acknowledge them. “That is because this side of the planet is not as rich in potential as the opposing hemisphere, wherein the shipyards and larger, more advanced towns are located,” he says plainly. “It makes sense as to why our target was settled out here, away from primary locations and much more difficult to find, should the Empire pursue him directly. He could run his operation without regularly leaving the planet. It was, quite frankly, a genius decision, that will serve us just as efficiently as it did he.”

Echo straightens up ever so slightly, crossing his arms. “Isn’t it weird that the Empire hasn’t come out this far? Wouldn’t they want to secure the whole planet at once?”

“One would assume. However, other than the spatial opportunity, there are no valuable resources for Seswenna to offer, and those who occupy the planet already paid tax to the Republic with little or no resistance,” Tech replies, shrugging one shoulder. “Their cooperation is more or less a given, thus the Empire does not have any work to do here on that front, so long as nobody raises a rebellion. Our time in the town should pass uninterrupted, as well.”

Echo elicits a small ‘huh’ before going quiet, seeming to peer out across the town ahead with a peaked interest.

They continue forward, following Tech through this first wide road that Hunter assumes is the central-most location. He listens in on their environment, keen to make sure that, even if it isn’t remotely busy at present, and everyone - in theory - keeps to themselves, they aren’t being uncomfortably watched or precariously followed from a distance. He can hear the buzzing of some sort of machinery coming from the industrial complex, and workers chattering by a street corner. Nothing of interest, really. The same sort of sounds that come out of Ord Mantell, only with less of the dingy alleyways and dangerous bars that he’s got to tune into.

What does cause his ears to perk up, after a moment of careful listening, is a soft sort of noise that he recognizes as being not all that unlike Omega’s own footsteps when she’s trying to get into something that she shouldn’t; deliberately discreet and overtly suspicious, and coming from roughly thirty-feet somewhere behind them along the same path.

For several seconds, he merely listens, not wanting to leap to a conclusion, make eye contact with someone jumpy, and start a fight. But as those several seconds pass, and he is as certain as the sun that they are following his path, he slowly turns his head to the side to lock behind them, over Wrecker’s shoulder, doing his best not to draw any attention to his movement and alert his brothers - or the perpetrator - prematurely.

He finds, however, that there is nobody behind them. The footsteps continue, even and conspicuous, but he can’t see or find whoever it is that’s making them. And when he glances over his opposite shoulder, there isn’t anybody there, either. Not behind Wrecker, or off to the side. He looks quickly to the top of the smaller buildings, just to be very sure that it isn’t someone trekking across the rooftops, but there is no one.

And then it stops.

It stops, and it does not pick back up again as they keep moving.

He feels a sort of hesitant pang in his gut. It’s unsettling, but his eyes have hardly ever failed him, and he’s quite sure that there is nobody within his line of sight in any direction.

They could be anywhere, inside one of the buildings, he rations. Just because they’re nearby, and traveling in the same direction, that doesn’t mean they give a womp rat’s ass about what his squad is up to.

But it’s still… peculiar. And unnerving.

“Everything okay, Sarge?” Wrecker mutters from the back, catching Echo’s attention, as well. Suddenly, both of them are staring at Hunter.

Hastening to put his worries to rest before Omega - currently distracted by whatever there is to see in the town around her - catches on to his wariness, Hunter waves a hand dismissively. “False alarm. Nothin’ to worry about,” he replies, trying to sound apathetic.

The subject is dropped, and the footsteps still do not pick back up. Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about, just as he’s said.

“Our given coordinates are south of town,” Tech says lowly now, tilting his chin up, and seemingly unaware of anything going on behind him. “There is no direct route to take into the woods, therefore, we will have to pass up through the series of warehouses and exit out the back. From there, we can trek the outer perimeter through the forest and ultimately arrive at the outer wall of the docking bay in what I am led to believe is a dense patch of trees. That is where we should expect to find the bunker.”

“Lead the way,” Hunter answers plainly, beckoning ahead of them to the crossroads between the town and the industrial complex.

His brother hums and unclips his datapad from his belt, adjusting his goggles on his nose while he pulls up whatever it is he needs to proceed.

The nearest overpass between one building and another, combined with the height of the buildings, blocks out the sun from the street. The shade looming over them now is surprisingly darker, so much so that his eyes take a few seconds too long for comfort to fully adjust.

Whilst he’s adapting to the light change, Omega picks up her pace ever so slightly, until she is almost side by side and matching Tech’s stride. Hunter’s first reaction, the immediate response that he nearly has when his stomach flips in repetitive, nauseating circles, and his heart beats a little faster at the extra distance between them in the darkness of the covered road, is to tell her to back up. Get back here. Stay behind in the middle. Don’t wander. If they get attacked, she’s vulnerable. Someone could grab her, pounce from the shadows and take her away-

But then she giggles, swiveling her head from side to side like she’s never seen anywhere greater in her entire life. “Are there any animals in the forest, Tech?” she inquires, looking up to her older brother with wide curious eyes.

His eyes settle, and whatever Tech says next, he does not hear, the protests forming in his throat die as they reach his tongue and he’s hit with a vague sense of clarity. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Nothing’s happened. What is he going to do, ruin her fun? Tell her not to ask the questions that he knows collect in her mind like droplets of morning dew on a leaf until she’s can’t take it anymore and they spill over and out, into a rambling, bumbling mess of words that only Tech has the intellectual capacity to keep up with? Like a Kaminoan would? Like Nala Sé did? All because, Maker forbid she doesn’t fall exactly in line with where his demanding anxiety requires her to be in order to be kept in check?

What the hell is wrong with him? Spooked by footsteps that don’t concern him, panicked, because his kid isn’t within arms length, despite the face she’s practically pressed flush against her wholly and fully capable brother’s arm? He can see her with his own eyes, not five feet in front of him. He can hear her heartbeat, and her energetically charged breathing, exactly as they should be. Exactly as he expects them to be. They aren’t in any imminent danger. The fact that the town is so quiet at present is, in fact, better. And yet he’s a step away from getting worked up over a threat that doesn’t exist.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Crosshair’s voice hisses. ‘You’ve become soft. Scared. It’s pathetic.’

If Crosshair were here, Hunter would tell him to shut the hell up. But he’s not. And he can’t. Even if he were here, his brother wouldn’t have any idea what Hunter is talking about. Technically speaking, Crosshair hasn’t done anything wrong in this regard. He isn’t HERE, for Maker’s sake. It’s the fabrications of Hunter’s own issues that are doing all the work. And yet, he can’t banish them forever. They keep coming back.

Apparently, they do this on missions now, too. Which is an entirely different problem in and of itself. This has never happened before. And it doesn’t make any sense. He was feeling fine, confident, until moments ago. Now he’s freaking out over a problem that doesn’t exist.

“What’s sub-tarain-an mean?” Omega asks loudly, excitedly, snapping him out of his stupor. Her stark mispronunciation sends a flutter of hilarity through his chest, as if to cleanse the intrusive ideas manifesting in his mind; he finds it absolutely adorable when she asks things so boldly like that, even when her misunderstanding is so plain.

“Subterranean,” Tech gently corrects her, and Hunter can hear the smile on his face below his helmet. “It means to exist or occur beneath the surface of something, typically a planet’s surface. For example, some animals burrow a series of tunnels only into the ground under the dirt, therefore making their homes ‘subterranean’.”

“That’s really cool,” she declares, and the sergeant catches a glimpse of her eyes sparkling with wonder. “So the bunker is s-subterranean?”

Tech nods shortly. “Bunkers tend to be, because of their common purpose. A bunker is meant to conceal objects, living beings, or otherwise, and the best place to do so in many instance such as this, wherein the collector’s goal was to take from the Empire without being found, is underneath the ground, where many scarcely search,” he goes on, waving his hand around as he explains. “They take a great deal of time to build, a task that is not easily done without notice. I suspect that this particular bunker existed long before this man made use of it.”

Omega nods back with a visible sense of purpose, before turning her head forward as they continue walking down the dim street.

Hunter takes a steadying breath in through his nose, then slowly out through his mouth. Everything is fine.

To occupy his mind with less debilitating thought, he wonders instead if Omega’s sensed anything of interest in the some twenty minutes since they’ve arrived. From what she’s told him, her force sensitivity is, in a way, similar to his enhanced sense in that it never really ‘stops’, merely that certain things are tuned out, until something peaks her curiosity. Assuming that nothing has, since she hasn’t said anything, then surely, the footsteps he heard weren’t following them, he rationalizes. She’s had a tendency to pick up that kind of thing in the past, and she would have told him if she thought there was any sort of threat. It would have stood out to her. He would have been able to tell. But she seems unbothered, unworried.

He blinks rapidly as if to snap himself fully back into shape, sighing under the privacy of his helmet. He can see the edge of the town up ahead, and the forest beyond. It really is a rather small place. Once they reach the woods, it should be nothing but constant moving and searching until they locate the bunker, and even after, while they dig through the premise for the Toydarian ceremonial blade. Tech will investigate the claim that the boy responsible hid valuable information down below, and then it will be over. They’ll be off, back on the Marauder. It shouldn’t take any longer than a day, at most. Simple as that, and nothing to distract him. He’ll be too focused on the mission once he’s actively investigating, leaving no room or reason for his head to wander into undesired territory.

Perfect.

In a few measly steps, Tech and Omega cross the threshold of the street into the forest, Hunter, Echo and Wrecker directly behind them. The air in the woods immediately feels fresh, clean. Moderately warm. Different than it was in the town, - although that wasn’t all too bad to begin with - and much better than the typical Ord Mantell air dampened by pollution and dirty moisture and the odor of alcohol. After two days cooped up in the ship breathing cold recycled air, it feels especially refreshing now.

It’s nothing special. A dense tree line borders the perimeter of the town as far as he can tell. The grass is tall, uncut, and covered in small bushes. He can hear and feel various small insects skittering about under the cover of the foliage, as well as a small animal somewhere in a distant tree, though little else. He only hopes that whatever the creature is, it doesn’t come close enough for Omega to pick up on it; he knows full well he’ll turn around to find her missing, and he’s certain that his heart can’t take that right now.

“We are roughly fifteen minutes north of the target zone,” Tech informs the squad, stopping to turn and face them, bringing the rest of his siblings to a firm halt. “That is, roughly five klicks without accounting for any potential disruptions or distractions. In turn, we have approximately twelve hours left of natural daylight. Ideally, and depending on the actual size and set-up of the bunker once we have managed to infiltrate the facility, we should aim to locate the target and the information under those twelve hours, for prudence sake.”

Hunter quirks a brow up. “Is there anything dangerous out once darkness hits?” he inquire skeptically, and admittedly, a little nervous. That would have been good to know beforehand…

But Tech quickly shakes his head in return. “No. However, we will minimize our credits spent on port fees if we are to make it back by that time. The shops in town close one hour passed sundown, wherein the port later closes for for a few short hours in the evening between twenty-two and four hundred hours. We would have to pay the additional one-hundred credits for a technical overnight if we do not make it back there and settle for take off by that time,” he explains, Omega staring up at him intently with every word.

It’s not the worst thing in the Galaxy, if they owe two-hundred credits instead of one. But he understands Tech’s reasoning, and he’s inclined to agree. “Alright. Let’s keep moving, then. No reason to waste time,” he nods, beckoning towards the forest.

Omega grabs at Tech’s arm and tugs lightly as they keep walking. She begins to ask him questions again, this time about the nature on Seswenna, and the general environment of the world. The rest of them fall into a loose formation behind the pair of them, more relaxed now that they’re outside of the town. Still, Hunter maintains himself a close few feet following his kid, for the sake of his own sanity.

He breathes in the air, the smell of the grass and the trees, and frowns below his helmet. He loathes the way his anxiety nips at his heels, his confidence swaying, faltering, ever so slightly, yet just enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Logically, everything should go just as smooth as he managed to convince himself it would be when they were preparing for the mission. Nothing has changed. He’s hardly forgotten the blueprint that he’s committed to memory. They’re all fully geared up, fully armed, Omega is fine.

Everything is fine.

Breathing in another sigh through his nose, the sergeant forces down the apprehension bubbling in his gut, and dutifully keeps up with his kid’s animated pace.

Chapter Text

The trek through the forest feels unnecessarily long.

It isn’t. Five klicks, fifteen minutes, no more and no less. Exactly as Tech said. But it feels long. Tedious. Maybe if it weren’t for the fact that the remnants of Hunter’s stupid conscience’s thoughts in Crosshair’s voice are still lingering like a foul stench behind his ear, it would be alright. Yet they persist, because he hasn’t got anything to do with his hands and he swears that if he ropes the others into his foolish burden in any sense of the word, - that is, using them as a form of distraction by speaking about anything mundane and equally unnecessary at all - he knows he’ll feel guilty for quite a time afterwards.

He worries, too, that Omega will eventually notice something off about him, if she hasn’t already. Her perception has proven to be much stronger than her stunted ability to understand her connections with and the emotional extent of others. The living force through which she is able to navigate these things has a pesky habit of getting one over on him; that is, if she can tell that something is wrong, she won’t shy away from letting him know. She will, however, hesitate on occasion.

He’s honestly a little surprised that she hasn’t said anything, when his anxiety feels so palpable in his chest. Then again, maybe that’s only him. He’s being ridiculous, after all, and the chance that he’s overthinking this entire affair is very high. He’s gained a propensity for overthinking ever since he became a father, after all, hasn’t he?

By the time they come to a halt on the other side of the town’s wall, he’s convinced himself that this is true enough to serve a worthy excuse.

Tech stops walking first without any warning. Omega evidently doesn’t notice, taking a few more steps ahead of him, meanwhile Echo nearly collides with his back, a potential disaster prevented only by the fact that Wrecker notices just now, and leans forward to grab his brother’s armor collar to pull him back before they can make contact. Hunter has, at this point, fallen a bit behind, and takes up the rear. In spite of his busy subconscious, he stops walking in nearly the same moment Tech does.

“We are close, according to the map. The bunker is within range,” Tech informs them, turning around on his heel to face his brothers, obviously oblivious to the collision that nearly occurred. “I believe we would benefit from fanning out across the area. With Hunter’s tracking, I do not anticipate it to be difficult to locate. However, if you are up for it, Miss Omega-“ and he glances over his shoulder, the little girl stopping now at mention of her name. “-your force sensitivity may have the potential to prove itself an asset in this particular circumstance.”

Hunter cocks a brow, pursing his lips, unsure as to where Tech’s going with this.

Upon realizing that she’s accidentally overshot her distance, Omega backtracks with a sheepish grin, feet crunching slowly against a pile of leaves in the grass. “What d’you mean?” she asks, appearing reluctantly intrigued, and vocalizing Hunter’s own silent curiosities; he’s not all that certain where his brother is going with this one, though he seems rather interested in the idea. “I thought Phee said there’s nobody in the bunker anymore?”

“That is correct. Assuming that all has gone undisturbed, there should not be anyone within the bunker. I simply mean to suggest that perhaps you may want to try using the force to sense the location, if that is at all possible,” he explains, pushing his goggles up his nose. “Unless you have gone and attempted such a thing on your own, we do not know if this is a capability that you possess, in the same way that you do in regards to animals and other living beings.”

Hunter cannot suppress the frown working its way up his features. He’s not sure how he feels about this particular suggestion, if he’s being honest. On one hand, he understands the intention behind it. It’s an offer of an opportunity to test and practice her abilities in a fairly secluded location that isn’t the ship, away from prying eyes. He suspects that after the incident with the datapad, Tech is attempting to give her exactly that while under their protection. If she’s being asked to do it, with some semblance of guidance, and a precise target to find through a skill she’s already been improving upon, this could yield success on multiple fronts.

It could build her confidence, and provide them with further insight into the limits of her force sensitivity. Not only that, but this could - ideally, hypothetically - prove advantageous if she is in fact able to locate that sort of thing. It would shave time off the overall mission, or at the very least, limit just how much of that time they spend out in the open. Hunter is more than capable of finding this sort of thing through his tracking alone, but even that will take time, if any trails left behind in the past haven’t been buried by nature. The amount of time that’s elapsed since the previous owner last left the bunker is still gray area. Plenty of time for nature to run it’s course.

On the other hand, the extent of her abilities is still largely a mystery, and while that is in part due to a lack of time and space to practice them, it is also because they don’t know how powerful they have the potential to be. Nala Sé’s reports were buried or lost, theoretically, and all that Tech has been able to uncover over time is extremely lacking in detail. They don’t know what will happen if she taps into this power the wrong way. If something ‘too big’ happens, will she draw attention to herself? THAT has to be prevented at all costs, with how inherently dangerous such a thing is for her - for all of them - in this age of the Galaxy.

He’s not really keen on using her force sensitivity as a tool, either. Useful or not, and regardless of how the Jedi - or the Sith - once used it, Omega’s childhood situation of suppression and seclusion, and just having spent so much more time with the Kaminoans in general, makes the notion of turning the ability not gifted by the Galaxy but inflicted upon her through experimentation sickening. She had no agency then, but she does now. So unless she wants to try to use the force in such a manner-

“Yeah, sure!” Omega agrees perhaps a little too quickly for his liking, and before he’s got the opportunity to finish working it out in his head, nodding determinedly. Then she pauses for a moment, glancing down at her feet. “I’ve never tried on stuff that’s not… alive, no… so I dunno if it’ll even work-“ she adds, a thoughtful lilt to her voice, rising in pitch as she begins to ramble a little. “I-I mean, I can still try I might find something-!”

“Slow down there a minute, kid,” Hunter says gently, aiming to cut her off before she gets too flustered, or makes a decision to help purely because she’s always eager to please. “You can give it a go, but only if you’re sure. Like Tech said. Only if you’re up for it,” he adds, because regardless of how his anxieties or how feels about this personally, it is up to her. It’s her choice to make. He’ll be here to protect her no matter that choice.

“I can do it,” she replies earnestly. Sincerely. She means it.

Hunter’s eyes meet Tech’s over the top of her head, his brother’s expression and the look in his eyes indecipherable. “Alright. Give it a shot. But don’t worry too much about it, okay? Don’t push yourself. It’ll be alright if you can’t,” he relents; he’ll let her have a go since that’s what she clearly wants, but he’s not going to overwhelm her by putting the responsibility of an expectation on her.

Omega nods again, slowly, wringing her hands in front of her stomach in an anticipatory gesture. “Okay. I’ll try my best.”

As discreetly as is physically possibly, Hunter waves his hand behind him by his thigh, a silent request to his brothers to step aside and give her some space. Luckily, Echo gets the message, taking a few steps away from Omega and grabbing Wrecker’s bicep with his flesh hand to nudge him along. Tech, however, is far too interested in observing Omega as if to see what will happen to register the order, watching her with wide, curious eyes behind the yellow lenses of his goggles. As much as Hunter is watching, too, she can’t see his face beneath his helmet, and he hopes their brother’s piercing gaze won’t make her anxious.

She inhaling a deep breath through parted lips, then exhales evenly, closing her eyes as if to shut out the rest of the Galaxy. Hunter saw the Jedi do that, sometimes, when he worked with them. A natural sort of focus tactic to zero in on the force for those sensitive, he presumes. It must be effective if it’s as common and thoughtless an act as what he’s seen, though he isn’t quite sure he’ll ever understand how, if the force is invisible anyway, and they are able to feel it regardless of what they can see tangibly in front of them.

Whatever works, he supposes. That is, if this works. But one thing at a time.

For several moments, she stands entirely unmoving with her eyes still shut, and clenches her hands together in between her naval and her chest as if offering some sort of a prayer. Another focusing technique, perhaps. Her brows furrow as if deep in thought. Regardless of the outcome here, her willingness to try serves as a real reminder of how far she’s come in her abilities to sense things through the living force over the passing months, even without any proper guidance and minimal, self-inflicted experiences. Almost like she knows what to look for, now. Almost like she understands it, somehow.

Maybe she does. He certainly doesn’t, but it isn’t uncommon that he finds himself feeling as though there’s quite a bit about the Galaxy that she - ironically, in a sad but triumphant sort of way - automatically understands while he doesn’t. And maybe that’s another ‘force thing’; that is, to be wise beyond one’s years without seeming to be aware of it. Or maybe he’s just got a really smart kid. It doesn’t matter regardless, doesn’t change anything, but he still thinks about it from time to time.

As the seconds tick by into a full minute now gone passed, and he and his brothers stand around her with reluctantly bated breath, Hunter wonders too if there comes a point where someone should interrupt her. He’d loathe for her to push herself too hard in trying to succeed, as she had with the datapad, and end up accidentally hurting herself. He knows it’s not EXACTLY the same situation, and she may need a moment to get it if to get anything at all… but his ever-nagging fear of something going wrong and his kid getting hurt isn’t any less present.

But Omega’s shoulders suddenly tense before he can decide, and her eyes blow wide as if startled by something, sucking in a tight breath through her nose, while a shocked sort of squeak escapes her throat. She whips her head around frantically, this way and that, as if looking for something that only she can see, before her gaze lands somewhere beyond Hunter’s shoulder.

The sergeant, frightened by the knee-jerk reaction and her apparent surprise, - not at all what he was expecting to happen, and admittedly more alarming than what he was prepared for - turns to follow her eyes, one hand drifting habitually to hover over his blaster. Echo and Wrecker do much the same, heads tucked over their shoulders to look behind them, the latter yanking his vibroblade from his calf piece and holding it in a ready reverse-grip. Tech flicks his visor down, stepping forward and scanning over the area that’s seemed to have gotten her attention.

“What is it?” Hunter asks without looking back, prepared to take action and protect his kid if whatever it is turns out a threat. His eyes flit over the forest ahead, ears perked up to listen for any disturbances. He clocks and categorizes the sounds around them one at a time: five heartbeats, five uneven breathing patterns, ships rumbling in the port, a bird in a distant tree, an insect chirping in a bush. Nothing else. Nothing out of the ‘Seswenna ordinary’. “What did you find, kid?” he asks again, trying to hide his mounting concern and confusion by the lack of anything he can pick up.

Omega takes a few paces forward, passed Tech and - much to his chagrin - Hunter, putting her at the head of the group. She blinks owlishly, staring straight ahead still. “I- I think I actually found it-“ she mutters, tone laced with shock, and a mild unsurety. “Over there, Hunt’a.”

She lifts her hand to point, and Hunter follows her finger parallel with the ground. It leads to a tree, some thirty feet away, relatively isolated, rather than in some dense concentration of woods like the majority of the forest.

“What- the door?” he asks, rather bewildered and ever on edge.

Omega hums excitedly, moving forward, further from Hunter in large steps as if being lead on by an invisible force. THE invisible force, he realizes in a stark moment of clarity that causes simultaneous feelings of awe, and a fearful chill as the distance between them frowns to trickle down his spine like a light freezing rain. It… did it actually work?

No matter whether it did, Hunter finds himself surging forward with his right arm out to stop Omega from making anymore progress toward the tree wherein she claims she’s found the source before he registers his brain having given the order to move. “Wait!” he hisses through gritted teeth, perhaps a tad harsher than he wants to. Omega does stop, blocked by his hand as she collides chest-first against his flat palm, eyes wide still with wonder. “Are you sure it’s the door?” he asks again, softer this time. “You’re sure it’s over there?”

Because if it isn’t, if it’s something else, he’s automatically got to assume whatever it is a hostile. He’s got to take action appropriately.

And then his kid frowns up at him in that skeptical sort of way that always makes him feel a little guilty; as if she’s doubting herself because of his cursory concern. He winces, his first instinct to apologize for his haste, but Omega beats him out. “There’s something over there-,” she insists. “It feels heavy, like… if you could feel durasteel in your mind. Really heavy! I- don’t know how to describe it but the door-“

“I’ll go first!” Wrecker pipes up from behind, rumbling a short laugh as he suddenly appears over his siblings’ shoulders, practically breathing down Hunter’s neck. “If it ain’t the door, I’ll take care of it!”

He doesn’t wait for Hunter - or anyone, for that matter - to negotiate his proposal of an approach, marching forward with his knife gripped tight in his hand. His large gait gets him across in no more than the five ticks that pass in Hunter’s head, trudging through the tall grass that, against Wrecker’s sheer size, doesn’t look all that tall, really. A sense of tension and anticipation hangs idly in the air as the lot of them watch their brother close in on the indicated location. He is aware, too, of Tech and Echo edging forward to get a better look.

Wrecker stops beside the tree, and lowers himself into a crouch. He stoops down a little closer, running his free hand along the dirt, pressing it down into the ground. He pauses as if he’s found something, and reaches out to feel around about a foot to his left. With his vibroblade, he gives the dirt an experimental tap at the same time, and Hunter hears it in an instant; a large, gloved hand brushing against something solid, sturdy, expected. More importantly, he hears the top of his brother’s blade clinking against what can only be durasteel, before causing a tiny yet unambiguous reverberation to ripple through the forest floor below his feet at the disturbance of touch.

The door. It’s got to be the bunker door, concealed beneath a layer of nature made, in part, by time. And they’re already standing on top of it, the rippling sensation that he’s sure only his enhanced senses are aware of, the echo of the hollow compartments underneath the planet’s surface.

Wrecker lifts his knife dramatically over his bicep before sheathing it back in his calf piece. “It’sa door a’right!” he bellows over his shoulder, confirming in less words than Hunter’s own mentation that Omega’s senses were indeed correct (of course they were, and he’s kicking himself for having panicked as he did). “I think the latch is under some’a this brush! Might be a lil bit rusted!”

Withdrawing his hand, - albeit without acknowledging his embarrassment at the fact it was there in the first place - the sergeant makes a break for his brother, the others following in quick succession. He leans over Wrecker to get a look at it with his own two eyes. Fascinated by Omega’s display of her abilities, and the fact that she was able to find… this of all things through the force, Hunter merely stares at it for a moment, considering what he’s looking at. It’s nothing special; an inconspicuous slab of brown durasteel covered in rust, and overgrown with nature around the borders. Not particularly well-hidden, all things considered, but it does blend in with the dirt to some degree, and the height of the grass helps to cover it at a distance.

“Extraordinary…” Tech murmurs to himself, blinking, clearly just as fascinated by Omega’s skill as Hunter is speechless.

Echo laughs, tapping Omega on the shoulder with his scomp. “Nice job, kid.” And the little girl meets him with a wry smile, eyes creased at the corners.

Desperate to make up for his hapless first response, Hunter nods in agreement, reaching up to knock the top of her helmet with his knuckles. “Pretty impressive, ad’ika. Nice job.”

She smiles wider, glowing under his praise, giggling and appearing thoroughly proud of herself.

Hunter smiles under his helmet, before returning to the task at hand. He concentrates for a moment, listening again for anything from inside, but it is just as quiet as it was when he had checked a few moments prior. Noting how Tech is still watching through his visor, he asks, quietly - and for safety’s sake, of course - “Anything, Tech?”

“I am picking up a faint signal coming from inside the bunker,” Tech relays from the readout displayed across the HUD of his visor. “I believe it to be some kind of remote beacon, however, it is too weak of a trace to mean anything. Most likely a remnant of whatever programs the previous owner ran while he was down there. Something that was not shut off entirely when he left, one would presume. But that is all. There are no heat nor electronic signatures.”

Better not waste anymore time staring at it, then. “Wrecker, think you can get that open?” Hunter nods towards the latch which is, indeed, rusted over as Wrecker said it was. Unusually, it doesn’t appear to have a keypad and lock like most doors of this caliber, but a much more primitive lock that relies on some manner of physical key to grant the user access. It goes without saying that they don’t have that key in their possession, and it’s probably long gone by now, but they do have Wrecker, and this sort of thing is nothing in comparison to so many of the other doors he’s opened by hand and without invitation over the years.

“‘Course I can, Sarge,” Wrecker grins and reaches around to pat his pack. “But someone’s gotta getta detpack outta my gear,” he adds, chuckling.

Hunter grimaces to himself, though he’s sure his frown is audible in his tone. “Can’t you break that open without an explosive?” he sighs, only for Wrecker to immediately shake his head.

“I could, but you promised me a bomb, Sarge,” he deadpans.

Hunter’s frown deepens. Yeah, he supposes he did do that. And he’s not going to go back on a promise after the discussion they had.

Whoops.

“I’ll get it!” Omega chirps, maneuvering around her brothers, scrambling excitedly to reach Wrecker’s pack. She pops the top lid open, stuffing her hand into the case and rummaging around in his messy - Wrecker’s always had a rather unorganized pack - gear to feel for the detpack, sticking her tongue out and bunching her brows in careful concentration. Hunter definitely is not thrilled by the way she digs blindly through the clutter for an explosive of all things, but she squeaks in delight before he can figure out how to warn her to watch her hand without sounding like he’s scrutinizing her again.

“Got it!” she announces, procuring a detpack from Wrecker’s gear and reaching over his shoulder to hand it to him. He practically snatches it out of her grip, perhaps a tad too eager.

He cracks his neck and straightens his back. “Lemme show ya how it’s done.”

Because the Galaxy and everything within it is appears to be on a never-ending mission to slowly chip away at Hunter’s sanity vicariously through his squad’s individual reckless, unpredictable tendencies, Wrecker doesn’t wait for her to back up to begin preparing the small explosive in his hand. He doesn’t tell everyone else to first ‘step back’ before diving right into it, plucking the safety mechanism free with all the meticulous care that defies his demeanor when it comes to the delicate art of arming bombs. The sergeant swears here and now that his astonishment at the fact that he has yet to die of heart failure due to all the thousands of ways his siblings manage to make his chest cave has never been so unequivocally validated all at once.

“Take it easy, Wrecker,” he hisses through his helmet, grabbing Omega’s shoulder to yank her away from the bomb; she seems so horribly close, far too close for his comfort, and yelps when he pulls her to his side, though it is thankfully followed by a short giggle. He may have reacted prematurely before, but explosive devices are where he draws the line for things she can or cannot approach without extreme precaution. “Why doesn’t everyone give you some space first-“ he mumbles, shuffling back to put some fair distance between Omega and the bomb, beside Echo and Tech. “What’s the blast radius-“

“This one’s doors only, Sarge,” his brother replies dismissively as he places the charge over the latch. “Lil bangin’ noise is all, and some heat.”

Logically, realistically, Hunter knows that a detpack doesn’t do all that much damage to this sort of thing. But Wrecker’s got quite a collection of self-modified explosives, too, so he can really never be sure unless he asks first.

“Settin’ ‘er off in three…” Wrecker, still in a crouch, scurries back a little, the remote trigger in hand, thumb hovering over the button. “Two…” He ducks his head, and Hunter tucks Omega closer into his side… just to be safe. “One!”

The clicking of the trigger is lost in the crackling of the explosion going off and the clattering of the latch being blown open at its seams. With his enhancements, he knows that the sound of the blast is amplified within his ears and therefore sounds much worse than it is, - not to mention that he watches it occur in front of him, little more than a brief puff of flame that extinguishes itself in two seconds flat - but he squeezes Omega’s shoulder to keep her in place regardless.

The little girl watches with eyes blown wide out of her skull, despite the fact that it’s hardly an impressive sight, nor is it Wrecker’s best. Naturally, she finds it worth staring at all the same before it fizzles out entirely in a matter of moments, the only sign that it was ever there a thin sharp of durasteel from the bomb itself, and the lock broken into several small pieces scattered around where it had been securing the door shut.

Humming to himself in a satisfactory sort of way, Wrecker collects the debris in his palm and picks at the edge of the door with his other hand, lifting it open effortlessly in spite of how heavy Hunter can tell it is. Peeling it away inch by inch, he reveals a sizable opening in the ground, dark and dusty and covered in grime, lined by a steep, thick staircase nearly as rusted as the door by which it had been disguised. The stairs are surrounded by walls on three sides, whilst the fourth - the decline - leads into an abyss of deceptive nothingness shrouded in darkness without a visible bottom. Not even his eyes are able to adjust in search of a clue as to how far down this goes.

Omega’s breath hitches. “Woah.”

Hunter, however, swallows thickly, glad to have his features hidden behind his HUD view. He may have memorized the layout of the bunker’s entrance underneath, but he can’t navigate shit if he can’t SEE shit, either. His hearing and feeling will only do so much in the pitch black, even with their torches and the glow of Tech’s helmet, especially when there’s no living breathing being to follow, or a magnetic pulse to tap into. If that’s how black the staircase is, even with the natural light beating down through the trees and growing progressively more powerful, well, he can only hope that whatever mechanical systems are installed down there, Tech is able to get up and running.

Of all the places to hide a damned… what the hell did Phee call it again? Toydarian ceremonial blade, useless piece of junk… maybe the latter is just him- it doesn’t matter, they’re synonymous with one another. He saw holos; it’s worthless. And yet simultaneously worth twenty-thousand whole credits. Somehow.

All he’s got to say about it, glaring down the stairwell as a lump forms in his throat, is that this ‘treasure’, along with the intel she’s hinted at, - whatever it is - better actually be here, for both his sake, and hers.

Chapter Text

The sergeant of Clone Force Ninety-Nine is decidedly not afraid of the dark. He ‘grew up’ - loosely speaking - in the dark, after all. Both physically and metaphorically. Physically in the sense that much of Kamino was without windows, and even the corridors and barracks that did have windows looked out on little more than the vast, endless, bottomless ocean and infinitely gray skies blurred by streaking, pouring rainfall for nearly the entire duration of the standard year, impossible to see through. Metaphorically in the sense that the Kaminoans never told them anything. Never told him anything. Ever. Not unless it was absolutely critical that he knew. And there was little they considered ‘critical’ to inform him of. Including much relating to his own enhancements.

Those are things he’s had to learn himself, in time. Both the physicality of the Galaxy around him outside of Kamino, and the full capabilities of his ‘desirable mutation’. And, ironically, the Kaminoan’s experiments enhanced just about every aspect of his senses except for that which perceives the dark he became used to; his sight.

No, the Kaminoans never played with his eyesight like they did Crosshair’s or - regrettably - Tech’s, Hunter was instead victim to a great number of demeaning, violating experiments regarding most of his other senses individually while his eyes remain in their natural state. Sound, smell, and touch; the long-neck scientists poked at every other aspect of his brain’s registration of life until the phantom feelings of needles prodding at the back of his ear canal whilst they aren’t actually there became a common occurrence that he is still aware of today. But they never touched his sight.

He doesn’t know why, and he never asked. But on rare occasions - extremely rare occasions, because he cannot imagine how much worse his headaches might be and he knows through Tech what can happen if such a thing goes wrong - he does kind of wish that they had; hearing, feeling and smelling only does so much when one finds themself in the dark, surrounded by nothing at all. Especially when this particular facet of dark is underground, unexplored, and uninhabited. There isn’t anything to listen TO, or feel FOR. There’s only so much that a stale scent can do. And even if his eyes are able to adjust to a certain degree and with little effort, that only goes so far in pitch black, too.

Hunter is not afraid of the dark, but he doesn’t exactly like it, either. As familiar and routine as the unknown may be at this point in his short life, it’s always made worse when it’s shrouded in shadow and gloom, and he isn’t quite fond of what may be lurking behind it lying in wait, either. Not when his kid is along for the ride.

So naturally, he starts down the staircase first.

It’s not like he expected any less, as the leader of his squad, the eldest of his brothers, the father of a child. He’s in charge. He takes risks first, and he does so willingly, as is the order of things and the purveyor of his enduring sanity.

He takes the first few steps as slowly and as lightly as his feet can carry his weight, to test the stability of the structure and ensure the rust isn’t inherently a sign of decay as a result of some estimated several standard weeks of disuse. By the fourth step, he orders Wrecker to follow up next and test his own weight on the stairs. If they can carry Wrecker, they can carry anyone, and after three whole steps of stomping and clambering as is customary for his largest brother, when the staircase does not so much as creak under his weight, Hunter is at least satisfied enough to say that he doesn’t expect it to give under pressure and collapse under anyone’s feet.

Succeeding two more deliberately heavier steps just to be sure that result in nothing tragic, Hunter calls for the others to take up the rear and follow them the rest of the way.

“It’s super dark down there!” Omega gawks as she takes the first stair down, almost sounding enthused, if he isn’t mistaken. Of course. “How far down is it?”

Hunter casts a look over his shoulder in time to see Tech and Echo close behind Omega as she begins to take a series of large, precarious steps to try and catch up to Wrecker. Echo more or less hovers behind her, artificial feet pressing substantially against the durasteel surface, with his flesh hand out to catch her, Maker forbid she trip in all her haste to explore and either hurt herself, or send Wrecker - and thus, Hunter, too - reeling, or both. “No idea, so stay close to Echo and watch your footing, ‘kay kid?” he replies gently, Echo bobbing his head in agreement even though she can’t see him. “Don’t wanna find out the hard way.”

“Based solely of the small portion of the blueprint that Phee’s associate was able to procure, this bunker is particularly large in both margin and height,” Tech relays as he grabs his torch off of his belt, flicking it on and shining it ahead of himself in spite of the fact that he has yet to leave the daylight for himself. Hunter feels around absentmindedly for his own torch, pausing to pay his brother due attention, and to avoid any distraction before he moves further out of the natural light, as well. “It would not do for any of us to lose balance and fall the rest of the way down, seeing as solid ground is at least, by my estimate, one hundred and fifty feet below.”

Wrecker elicits a displeased groan that, for once, Hunter - who is not afraid of heights anymore than he is the dark - wholeheartedly agrees with.

Igniting the torch, the old army-issued device flickering to life with an encouraging shake and a grumble under his breath, Hunter points the light downwards. As he expected it would, it does very little in way of aid, only illuminating the next stair-and-a-half ahead of them, and the specks of dust floating directly in front of the power-cell. With the sheer thickness of… everything, really, he’s twice as suspicious that the original purpose of this bunker was not mere covert storage. It was simple enough from the start to discern that fact that its last owner didn’t build it, but this isn’t exactly what Hunter had in mind. At least, not on a planet like Seswenna.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Hunter trudges forward with consistent caution. One foot in front of the other as if he were trying to sneak up on a keen-eared foe, or preying on a target. The daylight above his head becomes dimmer as he descends by another step, passes another threshold, ever closer to finding out what sort of hoarded oddities are contained down here, which one is Phee’s, and collecting a handsome reward as a result for their trouble in the moment. And after, no more trouble like this, not for a long time. That’s what he keeps reminding himself, for the sake of propelling forward without the risk of falling by the wayside.

“Boys, torches out. All of you,” he calls behind him, hoping his wariness isn’t palpable enough to notice. “‘Mega, stay as close to Echo as possible, a’right? Even the lights don’t seem to do much down here,” he adds, scanning over the walls on either side of himself, and pressing the side of his helmet to activate his HUD view to alert him to any changes in temperature or pressure. Omega doesn’t have a torch of her own, and her clothing isn’t as warm as theirs. He knows from experience how cold it can be below a planet’s surface level.

The faint electrical pulsing of two small sources at the back of his head tells him that his brothers are quick to follow his directions, the reaction near-immediate. At least nobody is looking to rush in head first, - sans Omega - so he can feel a tad better about himself in regards to his consciousness.

He runs careful gloved fingertips along the wall to his left, a rigid and uneven surface covered in raised bumps of durasteel that had never been properly hammered down. Sharp teeth chipped off the structure by time and likely abuse, something having been banged about in transport, prick the edges of his fingers through the fabric in between his bare hands and his surroundings. If it wasn’t for the fact that he has always worn gloves while out, as a rule, they might be drawing blood right now.

With each movement forward, he feels a sensation of discomfort in his legs. The type that occurs when one is sure that there SHOULD be footing precisely where they expect it to in stepping forward, only to find that their estimation of distance or depth is off. Neither is off. In fact, the more he moves, the more accustomed he’s starting to become with the pattern of the stairway, the height from one step to the next, unchanging. But that biting, sinking feeling behind his knees and in his thighs persists, hesitancy laced in every step.

Peculiar. Annoying.

At least there is no false sense of security, in terms of the physicality of the place; nothing that compels him to let his guard down and slip up in spite of his now waning confidence that he’s still fighting to maintain. He can only pray to the Maker that the entire bunker isn’t like this, however, unapologetically difficult to navigate and inherently misleading in nature. It must not be, he thinks, because if someone was able to come up with a blueprint to any extent, then there must be some manner of light source built into the bunker, if not an electrical system that powers the facility in some facet or another. He’ll leave Tech in charge of that, if such is the case. He’s pretty damn hopeful it is. Perhaps desperately so.

But they’ll find out soon enough, won’t they? He must be getting close to the bottom, with how dense the volume of each individual step is. That being said, he isn’t all too sure how to feel about how easily this has all been progressing now that he’s actually living it. Ironic, considering that the notion of ease was, in part, why he so readily agreed to the mission. So used to Cid’s jobs and all the problems that accompany them, he cannot shake the idea that he’s only biding his time waiting for some catch to be thrown back in his face, or some unprecedented complication to throw him for a loop.

When he and his brothers were cadets, roughly Omega’s physical age and some six standard months into their training, Nala Sé had them sent to the ARC trooper early training program on the other side of Tipoca City, lumped in with clones twice their age who possessed four times their experience. Those clones earned that level of training through said experience and preparation before the war. Hunter and his squad were there because they were expected to perform on par with the Kaminoans’ expectations from the get-go. It was uncomfortable, and terrifying. One of the most fear-inducing moments of his entire life.

But after a few days of introduction to the drills and the nature of the courses that would be undertaken, Hunter realized that being afraid of things he couldn’t predict - as the tasks were built to simulate - was an illogical choice. His squad was sent there because that’s precisely what they were engineered to handle in the first place. If they were incapable of handling the unknown on the battlefield, the missions that the regs would never be able to physically take on, their purpose would be defeated, the Kaminoans would deem them useless, and they would all be decommissioned. So it made no sense, at the time, to be afraid of unpredictability, because if that’s what he was created to handle, then he could, if it would keep him alive. His brothers, too.

And even if the tasks were physically taxing, far above what they should have been doing at that age, and more or less sucked the life out of his body on just about every occasion, they quickly became unchallenging on principle, because they were as necessary to his squad’s survival as air. They learned to overcome, to be better, if only to keep going. That was about the time he began to seek reckless thrill, in search of a mental distraction and lacking an imagination, until that approach was humbled out of him in the field.

It’s almost - almost - funny how easily and unflinchingly that had been changed a second time at war’s end. The irony of his indecisive attitude is not lost on him.

Brow pinched, the sergeant finds his grip on his torch begin to tighten absentmindedly. He despises thinking about such things while on a job (or at all); diversion is distasteful and this line of thought never ends well when it gets too much attention, he knows that. Who is he, reminiscing and considering like his life is all THAT interesting when it really hasn’t been, up until Omega and-

And suddenly, his left foot raised with the expectation of falling to a lower step, hits the slab of solid ground below him that is level with where it had just been. Level with his other foot. And he blinks, that sensation in his legs instantly about as real as real can get, more than just a phantom notion brought about by the anxiety of ‘what ifs’.

Glancing down through his HUD view and shining his torch directly on his feet, he finds that there is no next step in front of him, only a solid floor that extends farther than any of the stairs had. Taking another cautious step forward, and a second, and a third, the floor continues for a solid stretch in front of him. The bottom, he thinks. This must be the bottom. Picking the torch up level to his chest and staring forward, he narrows his eyes as if to get a better look, and finds that, just barely, he can see two parallel walls running ahead evenly.

A corridor. They HAVE reached the bottom.

“Watch your step!” he calls back hastily over his shoulder to warn them of the upcoming change in their path before somebody - Omega - collides with somebody else - Wrecker - and the lot of them end up in a pile on the floor. “We’re on flat terrain! Take your time.”

Hunter turns around to offer them what little extra light his torch can provide while they catch up with him. Wrecker lets out a hefty sigh when he makes it to Hunter, cracking his neck. “‘Felt like forever,” he grumbles, voice laced with shameless relief.

“It wasn’t that bad!” Omega declares as she comes up beside her brother, Echo and Tech in tow, and he can see the wonder in her wide eyes under the dim light. Then she turns on Hunter and sucks in a breath, grinning. “This is really it?”

A faint smile tugs as his lips. “Should be. Tech, wanna run a scan and-“

But his brother has already re-retrieved his datapad from his belt, holding it up close to his nose and typing away at a rapid pace. “We have reached the ground floor, of that I am certain,” he briskly replies, stepping forward to put himself at the head of the group, around his siblings and near shoulder to shoulder with Hunter. “I am also picking up the faint signal from earlier at a stronger capacity. The prudent course of action would be to investigate this first. I have reason to believe via past experience that it may lead to an overall power source that will run an electrical system in the ceiling.”

Omega’s mouth hands open. “Huh?”

“The lights,” Hunter supplies, stifling a chuckle. Even while she has gotten far more used to Tech’s way of speaking, he still manages to lose her from time to time. “It turns on the lights.”

“Hypothetically,” Tech adds, cutting him off and glowering at the the screen with what Hunter suspects is a deep frown beneath his helmet. “But my read is not stable enough to tell. We are too far underground for most signals to penetrate the walls. While comms will work, it would be safe to assume that they may be slow to transmit, or burdened by static. That may change if I can get the power running, but it is too early to determine.”

A good sign, that much is for certain. Hunter purses his lips and faces the empty corridor, inching carefully forward while holding his hand up in a fist, the sign that his squad’s not to follow yet. He should, in theory, know where this leads. But without light, or something to hone in on, he lacks a sense of direction at the moment. Once he can get a grasp as to where they’ve been ‘spit out’ so to speak, he’s sure he’ll have no issue finding his way around the entrance as he had rehearsed in his mind one hundred times.

He hardly has to go far to find what it is he’s looking for; the corridor ends at a short wall built of ferrocrete, an opening to a smaller corridor leading to his left. Gripping the corner of the wall, he peers around the side, squinting. This corridor is even shorter, short enough that as he flashes his torch across the way, he can see where it ends. He isn’t entirely sure where it spits out, but if the map was correct, it should lead to the first in a series of small rooms.

“This way,” he directs, beckoning for the others to follow. The jumbled pitter patter of their various shoes hurry towards him, and in what feels like no time at all, Omega is clinging to his belt and peeking around his body to stare down the next room, too. Intrigue rolls off of her in waves.

Creeping forward on the toes of his boots, Hunter clears the hall with little effort, his kid matching his stride to hold onto him. As he suspects, it leads them into a much larger opening, the difference in feeling of stale air flowing freely through the space immediately recognizable. The torch light proves their location when he finds the corners of the wall to either side of him, stacks of large rectangular crates housing Maker-only-knows-what pressed against them, and suddenly, he knows exactly where they are.

“Tech, where’s that signal coming from?,” Hunter asks, idly rotating the flickering torch in his one hand while the other finds the space on Omega’s back between her shoulders, a way to ensure she stays close (even while she remains clinging now to his bicep).

“West,” Tech answers, holding his datapad outwards, scanning the room before them. “And it would appear that these crates do not contain anything I can pick up by means of a remote scan. Though I highly doubt that the collector was foolish enough to keep anything of value in the opening egress of the facility, either. The Toydarian ceremonial blade is likely deeper within,” he adds. Unprompted, but useful. Hunter nods along. “That being said, if this signal is connected to a power source, it may be connected to a computer as well, and I would assume that the data Phee mentioned we may find would also be located there, among other things. I believe we should start with that. It may provide us with a lead as to where best to search.”

According to the blueprint, and the mental map of such burned into Hunter’s subconscious, there are two directions that can be taken from here. Westward, a second small hallway that leads into another room larger than this one. From what he has now gathered, it must be some manner of a control centre. To the east, a larger corridor that breaks off into several smaller compartments before veering northward and stopping at a third room before leading to what he can presume are more storage units on the other side down yet another hall.

It would be most efficient to split up. If Tech’s examination of this signal doesn’t yield results, he would be loathe to waste the time not getting anything else done. No stone should be left unturned, and with all of the projected location potential of Phee’s treasure, turning all of those stones could take a while. Even if their comms aren’t working quite as well, Tech said that transmissions will still make it through. They’ve worked with worse, radio silence and otherwise. But he doesn’t want anyone alone down here, either.

“Echo and Wrecker, go with Tech to investigate the signal,” he decides, pointing at the latter and jerking his head away from himself and Omega. “Report back once you figure out what it’s coming from, and see if you can get any lights up and running. Omega and I will start looking for the sword. I want us in and out as quickly as possible, got it?” Omega grips his arm a little harder, shaking with energy, bobbing her head in acknowledgment of his instructions.

Echo nods and shrugs all at once. “The sooner the better. This place gives me the creeps. I don’t like it,” he mutters, waving his scomp arm around noncommittally. “Somethin’ about it feels off.”

Coming from Echo, this is a concern worth nothing, but Hunter isn’t going to let that show. The last thing he wants to do is spook Omega. “All the more reason to get it over with,” he agrees, grunting in return. “Let’s fan out and get this over and done with.”

Leaving his fully grown and entirely capable brothers to their task, Hunter gently steers Omega forward with his hand pressed against her back until she carefully and silently asks for him to remove it, which he does without fail, only for her to adjust her own grip. She shifts to holding his hand instead of his whole arm, tiny fingers squeezing around as much of his hand as she can, which isn’t all, but the effort is there. Hunter squeezes her fingers back without diverting his gaze ahead, shifting the torch to hover over his chest and provide more light for the both of them to work off of.

He considers the room with more precision as they go, eyes flitting here and there to look out for anything with the potential to worth something, whether that be in the practical sense or the monetary one. The room, however, is largely uninteresting; the crates line the walls as if to border the room, some piled up to the ceiling, while others are strewn about in the middle of the floor scattered or tipped over on their sides, but remarkably unopened. They must be sealed tight, for the sake of whatever is in them. Supplies, perhaps. Tools. Smaller trinkets. His guess is as good as any.

Omega follows his lead without issue. She doesn’t squirm away to rush ahead like she has the tendency to do, sticking close by even as they make it into the second corridor and her mouth hangs agape in fascination. Whatever it is about this place that she finds THIS… riveting, he hasn’t got any idea. The easy answer is that she finds nearly everything interesting by default. Yet some small part of him that he tries to bury wonders sourly if she should like this sort of place even less in that same vein. She spent so much of her childhood trapped under the water, after all, and a subterranean bunker is essentially the exact same thing in concept-

But he’s glad that she is, somehow, enjoying this, having a little fun. Because the rest of them aren’t. The rest of her family is doing this purely for the rewards of that will be brought on by success, and the enjoyment of what will come after. Which isn’t so bad, though it doesn’t change the fact that there’s always something unsettling about this sort of place, whatever that may be.

Omega pulls on his hand and glances up at him with a glint in her eyes that typically means trouble. “D’ya think there’s other treasure down here we could take? ‘Cuz Phee only asked for the sword, but Tech said the guy stole other stuff too-“ she seems to be wondering aloud more than asking him specifically for an answer, scrunching her nose up in thought. “Except Phee didn’t ask for anything else, so maybe that’s the only treasure here…”

“No way of knowin’ until we look around, kid,” Hunter replies lightly. “Only thing we can do now is look. Maybe we’ll find somethin’ else along the way, but we gotta focus on the objective,” he adds, anxious to keep everyone on their due course.

She nods seriously, though a slight smile graces her features. “Yeah… fifteen-thousand credits is a lot!” she then tells him, smile expanding into a toothy grin. “What’re we gonna do with it?”

Hunter pauses to consider his response carefully. Obviously, he already knows exactly what he wants to do with those credits, and it has been almost exclusively in his thoughts since this began. His mind is set, and it cannot be swayed. Hiding away and living as close to a normal life as possible is what he is going to do, and that’s about as final and final can be. But he isn’t sure he should yet tell Omega, if only to avoid getting her hopes up, or queuing her in before he and his brothers have discussed the logistics and the locations and the long term.

“It’s closer to twenty-thousand,” he says slowly. “And we’re not sure yet. We haven’t talked about it.”

It’s not a lie. It’s more of a… half truth. An answer that’s missing a few pieces.

She gives him a sort of look, like she’s onto him, brows raised, lips drawn into a line. And she probably is. She doesn’t say anything, however, simply staring at him with that same look for several long moments before gripping his fingers a little tighter still.

They’ve reached the first in the series of rooms by now, and Hunter comes to a halt before the first on his left, Omega nearly tripping over his feet when he stops, before steadying herself with his hand. The room is closed off by a door with an older model of handle, and a lock that looks nearly identical to what had been attached to the latch outside, only he notices a peculiar lack of a keyhole. He grimaces at this, hoping that whatever weird key it may be for, it isn’t required to get in. Maybe not all the doors were locked upon departure. No way of knowing unless he tries, he supposes.

Wordlessly, he offers Omega the torch to hold to free up his other hand, and she takes it from him excitedly to hold it up to the door. He pushes down on the handle, pleasantly surprised when it goes down all the way, the lock clicking to indicate that the latch inside has been opened. Giving it an experimental tug, the door swings open toward them just as easily, revealing yet another pitch black compartment built into the ground.

Unlike the entrance, however, there is a noticeable absence of crates or storage, and the room is far longer than it is wide. Peering in with the light of his torch, it does even less to illuminate the space than it has the rest of the facility, but he notices on the back of the door, a series of wires connected to the lock mechanism that run down the length of the door before disappearing into a tiny hole in the wall. There is also a distinct lack of electricity coming from the wires; none, in fact, that he can feel. He does not want to know what those wires do, or where they lead, and suddenly, there is an eerie sense of foreboding and fright biting at the back of his brain, a voice in his head telling him that they would do to retreat, because something about this place feels oh so horribly wrong in comparison to the rest.

“What… is this?” Omega whispers, and Hunter takes the torch back from her while simultaneously freeing his other hand from her fingers to push her behind him.

“I don’t know. Stay close, be quiet, and don’t act unless I tell you to,” he murmurs, gripping the torch in his fist so hard he feels the electricity contained inside pulsing against his palm. He doesn’t move again until he feels Omega nod against his back.

The door is sturdy enough that it remains open on its own, and so he feels comfortable enough to inch into the room without propping it open. He shuffles forward with a deliberate delicacy, Omega mimicking his movements and sucking in cautious breaths through her nose. Her heart beats a little faster, and he can hardly blame her, because he can feel his own doing the exact same thing against his chest cavity. Almost painfully so.

His torch catches something small and round and shiny against the light to his right, and he whips his head around to get a closer look. To his shock, his HUD actually beeps as if identifying the object without needing to be told, and a report of the automatic scan flashes across his screen; a small thermal detonator. Or rather, what remains of the shell of a thermal detonator that’s already been used. It’s cracked and broken, surrounded by shards of debris, but there are no other signs that it had ever been used at all, let alone here. No, if it had been used, this compartment, and possibly the entire bunker, would have collapsed in on itself a long time ago.

So what the hell is it doing here? Who left it here?

And how recent is it?

His heart continues to beat ever harder.

“What’s that-“ Omega begins to ask, voice just barely even a whisper, and Hunter prepared to tell her to stay away, don’t touch it, don’t get to close, when an entirely different sound catches his attention and he swears up and down that his heart may just stop beating altogether.

“Quiet,” he hisses instead of a warning, far too harsh, far too desperate, whipping around to face the doorway, keeping Omega blocked behind the security of his body. For a moment, he thinks he must be hearing things, paranoid and fearful and finally going crazy once and for all, because the noise stops as abruptly as he had caught it. And he waits, counting breaths, hiding Omega with his hand, glaring in the direction of the door-

And there it is again. He recognizes this sound, wishing he doesn’t. Because it means that he was right, and that he ignored it, convinced himself that he was letting his anxiety get the better of him and that it would be fine- everything is FINE because why shouldn’t it be? Don’t they deserve that, after all they’ve worked for. But he heard it in the market and he assumed, because it stopped and because Omega did not react and because he hadn’t heard it again until now that there was no reason to raise alarm.

Footsteps, and not any of those belonging to his brothers; he knows their footsteps far too well. These deliberately discreet and overtly suspicious, the same manner of weight of approach that they had been when he heard them in town. The exact same footsteps, of that he has no doubt in his mind.

They WERE being followed, and he had brushed it off, like an optimistic fool.

The footsteps come closer and closer with every second that ticks by, and by the way Omega gasps quietly, she must hear them now, too. Now Hunter can hear a third heartbeat as well, steady and unbothered, confident in their approach. All that Hunter can think, angry at himself for his negligence and angry at whoever this is for daring to insert themselves into HIS fucking business, is that he is going to meet them with all the furious fervor of a man who holds no qualms about slaughtering anyone who dares to get too close to his daughter without first proving themselves worthy of such a thing.

He cannot see them in the dark, but they are almost in the doorway by now, and he holds his torch closer to the entrance of the room while his opposite hand finds his blaster holstered at his side, not simply hovering over the body, but taking it into his fist and carefully beginning to draw it.

“I know you’re here! Who are you?!” he barks into the darkness, the sheer volume causing Omega to jump, startled. But whoever it is doesn’t answer, and they’ve stopped moving in the doorway, as if waiting for something that only they are aware is coming.

The sergeant it about to call out again, about to demand that they respond or else he will open fire, but he doesn’t get the chance, not before he, and the entire room around him, as well as the corridor outside, is bathed in bright yellow light baring down from the ceiling.

He feels it for half of a second before it happens, and yet, it still catches him by surprise. For a brief moment, the light is a terribly blinding thing after navigating through nothing for this long, but after his eyes adjust, and the haze of the unexpected begins to fade away in his mind, it occurs to him first that Tech must have found a the power source and gotten the lights turned on as he was instructed to do. And while this should be a relief, at the moment, he’s unable to feel such a thing, immediately directing his attention back to the door now that he’s able to see the perpetrator standing inside of it.

A humanoid man, a dark-skinned Weequay, not all that much taller than himself, his face obscured by a pair of rectangular goggles with green-tinted lenses around his eyes. Earrings dangle from either side of his head, while a series of somewhat messy braids fall around his shoulders out from under a helmet not all dissimilar to Omega’s in function that sits atop his head. He dons a long deep red coat that falls all the way to his ankles, the collar up around his neck (perhaps some means of protection). He doesn’t appear armed on the outside, but Hunter knows better than to let his guard down at that; his coat is entirely capable of concealing any number of weapons.

The Weequay wears an aghast expression, blinking almost as if he’s offended by Hunter’s reaction to his presence, before he speaks up. “My, my, my- is that how you speak to someone you do not know, eh?” he asks, his voice light with amusement and thick with an accent. “We are new acquaintances, no? You don’t know me, I don’t know you- we could become friends, you know!”

“Who. Are you?” Hunter grounds out a second time, not exactly eager to put up with some sneaky stranger’s antics.

And the Weequay actually laughs now, because apparently, there is something that he finds FUNNY about all of this. His face twists with a huge grin and another laugh that shakes his shoulders. “Why, I am renowned pirate and best friend to Obi-Wan Kenobi- Hondo Ohnaka, at your service dear boy!” he exclaims, waving his hands about dramatically. “And I have a feeling that we can become very good business partners, you and I, haha!”

Chapter Text

“Pirate?” Hunter sputters back lamely, utterly dumbfounded and far too shocked in the moment, his brain flooded with a myriad of question and objections and concerns to come up with anything better. He should be more surprised by the latter half of that statement, - ‘best friend to Obi-Wan Kenobi’, because how true could that POSSIBLY be? - but the label ‘pirate’ is significantly more alarming from the get-go.

Omega shuffles around in place behind him, and he can hear her head moving this way and that as if looking for or at something. Heart still beating in her chest, he feels her turn around so that her back is pressed flush against his own. “Uh, hey- Hunt’a-“ she murmurs, tugging urgently on his scarf to draw his attention and peeking around his side, before being cut off by the Weequay - Hondo, apparently - and his annoyingly enthusiastic attitude demanding the sergeant’s attention.

Hondo laughs a third time and Hunter’s blood is boiling under his skin. “Yessir, that is me! And who, may I ask, are you and your little… acquaintance?” he inquires, eyes widening with intrigue behind his goggles at the sight of Omega in much the same way that Tech’s often do when his interest has been thoroughly piqued. That, the sergeant decides, is doubly infuriating. “You remind me of a clone trooper, you know. You’ve got the voice, hah! But that helmet… it throws me off! I would be honored if you would, eh, enlighten me so that we may get to know one another!”

Hunter is not going to do that. What he is going to do, after he’s taken a thorough stock of this frankly utter moron, is put him in his place, and whether that’s got to be through brute force or otherwise, he doesn’t really care.

In the whole minute and then some that’s passed since the Weequay first spoke up, he’s said a hell of a lot more than Hunter would have been expecting from an introduction to someone he doesn’t know in a Galaxy where such is far from smart, let alone the fact that he more or less strode in with all the misplaced confidence of a man who thinks he can predict exactly how things are going to proceed and gave such an introduction at all.

Hunter is fairly confident that only half of what he said was true. That is, that he’s a pirate. He looks a pirate. The coat, in particular, resembles that of something he saw on a pirate captain he encountered in the Outer Rim during the war; unnecessarily flashy and relatively impractical for most things, but with the space built in to hold things - stolen good, probably - without needing to carry a pack or a satchel. He has to admit that it’s probably efficient in their… ‘line of work’.

The claim that he was Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi’s best friend, however, is wildly less believable.

Not that Clone Force Ninety-Nine’s assignments ever really gave them a chance to know Kenobi personally, having spoken to him a handful of times, and only working together on one occasion. Though, Kenobi did have a reputation within the army like few others. The reg soldiers idolized him, claiming him to be kinder and gentler to the clones than most. Hunter heard the term ‘war hero’ thrown around from time to time, his technique on the battlefield supposedly unmatched, with a knack for negotiation that effective prevented several potentially devastating conflicts during the war.

‘Friend of’- what was it, Hondo Ohnaka? That definitely wasn’t one of the stories that he ever heard in passing, and he has a feeling it would be a hard one to miss. Obi-Wan Kenobi, the apparent best friend to a Weequay pirate who’s now putzing about the Outer Rim trailing clones? He doesn’t buy that for two seconds. At least this pirate is creative, he thinks sarcastically.

“How about we try a different approach,” Hunter drawls, jerking his blaster in Hondo’s direction to silently remind him of the position he’s in, currently still empty-handed himself. Even if the pirate is hiding something beneath his cloak, his hands are raised in a placating and deceptively friendly gesture. He’ll be slow on the draw. He’s vulnerable. “You tell me where you came from and why you’ve been followin’ us, and then I’ll decide what to do with you,” he offers firmly, pocketing his torch at his belt with no futher need for it, to free up his other hand.

Hondo dares to inch forward a step. “Such hostility! At least give me a chance to get to know you, eh?” he replies, winking and grinning and about one wrong move away from losing his head.

Fine. If Hunter can’t penetrate his thick skull with an obvious threat, he’ll play the pirate’s game, if only for a moment long enough to get down to his level, as demeaning as it may be. “You first, I insist,” he deadpans, drawing out each syllable for emphasis. Playing his game doesn’t equate to matching his tone. He’d hate to make him think he’s enjoying it, and give Hondo the wrong idea.

“Haha! You’re a tough negotiator. I admire such tenacity,” Hondo rumbles, dropping his hands to cross his arms over his chest. “Fine fine fine. You know, this reminds me of a similar confrontation I had-“

Hunter lays his index finger of the tigger and clicks the top of the pistol to switch from kill to stun (not that Hondo is aware of the setting). “Skip the story.”

“Hunt’a-“ Omega hisses, gripping at his side, peering up at him.

“Hold on kid,” he murmurs softly.

The sergeant would love to tend to whatever it is that’s got her vying for his attention at the moment, he really would. He certainly feels badly that he isn’t, nor that he knows what it is, if not Hondo, that proves the cause of her evident anxiety. But given the fact that he cannot hear or feel anything else in the space that poses an immediate or possible threat to her safety other than the obvious issue five feet away, he can’t afford to divert his gaze; can’t afford to turn his back, and leave her, - his kid, his daughter - susceptible to attack. He has to be smart, make up for his prior negligence.

Hondo bobs his head thoughtfully. “I am something of an… entrepreneur. Pirate may be my official title, but I am in it for the money, which really makes me more of a… businessman, no? That is a hard line of work in this Galaxy, I thought I was done for when the Empire took over!” And that is possibly the first and only thing he’s said that Hunter can, to some extent, get behind. “But! When I was informed by an associate- very good man- that this bunker housed valuables, I saw my opportunity for credits! To get back on my feet! I’m sure you can relate, seeing as how you, my friend, are here for the same reason, are you not?” he starts, rambling on and on and waving his hands emphatically as he goes.

“I meant you no ill will, I hope you understand-“ he adds hastily, shaking his head. “Besides, it was less of following… think of it more as helping out a poor soul with a struggle like yours, yes? Because my associate told me- he said ‘Hondo, I shared this very important information with another friend who may be using it! Play nice!’ That’s what he told me. So I came to this planet and waited to see if anyone else showed up, and you did! I never would have found this place all on my own, no no no,” the pirate laments, punctuated with a dramatic heave of his shoulders.

Frankly, it is easily the worst excuse that Hunter has ever heard. Worse than whatever little white lies Omega comes up with its on the spot when she’s caught digging through Wrecker’s footlocker for any hidden sweets during the wee hours of the morning, to explain herself even while knowing that, one, nobody is going to fall for it, and two, she isn’t going to get in trouble regardless. Part of being a kid. Hondo, however, is not a kid, and therefore possesses no chance of getting away with this, nor does Hunter consider him any more or any less than an enemy at the moment.

The nice thing about this, is that the pirate seems wholly convinced that there is truly the potential for some manner of ‘partnership’ here.

There is not.

Hunter nods sarcastically along with the Weequay. “Uh-huh,” he hums dryly, simultaneously shifting his weight to attempt to better shield Omega as she inches further around him. ‘Stay back,’ he grumbles internally, seriously, hoping that it manages to project through the force, somehow, for her to sense, since she doesn’t seem to be taking the hint that she ought to remain out of the hypothetical line of fire and let him handle things. “And how’s all that workin’ out for you?”

He receives a shrug in return. “Not as well as I had wished, eh? But the night is still young, and I am a patient man,” Hondo runs his hands down the sides of his coat as if to smooth it out. “But it isn’t all bad now, is it? I still got where I needed to go, didn’t I! Haha!”

Truth be told, and to his credit, - albeit begrudgingly - Hondo hasn’t exactly been hostile, and other than the face that he trailed them, something that is partially Hunter’s own fault, he hasn’t done anything yet to give Hunter a wholly justified reason to shoot him (which is what he would like to do). Technically speaking, Hondo has just as much of a right to be here as his squad does, if only because, assuming that Hondo isn’t lying about his purpose, they’re both here to steal a handful of ‘goodies’ from a dead man. As much as he finds the Weequay a fool, maddening and ignorant, he can’t be entirely unreasonable solely based on his automatic vendetta against the man.

Not to mention the fact that he’s just one guy, no crew here to back him up, without protective gear or a commlink on his person, as Hunter can feel neither the distinct pulse of a communications device, nor the presence of another man or four, via his senses. One Weequay, with the attitude and demeanor of a drunkard, against four clone ex- commandos in katarn gear and armed practically from head to foot. Hondo may not even be aware of where the others are at the moment, which also gives them of the element of surprise to take advantage of. In any case, he’s outmatched, and that makes a difference.

So really, there are two options.

He can’t let Hondo go off on his own without any means of keeping track of him, because he still cannot be trusted. But that doesn’t mean Hunter can’t turn him into an asset, if - and only if - Hondo is willing to cooperate. He’s confident he will, because he highly doubts that the alternative is going to appeal.

“How about this,” Hunter starts, only slightly lowering his blaster as a ‘gesture of goodwill’, as it were. “Hows about you tag along, under my conditions, and we’ll play it by ear. Or…” and he pauses, casting a quick glance down at Omega, who continues to stare at him expectantly, desperate to say what it is she needs to say. Just another minute. “I stun you, tie you up, and leave you under armed guard at the entrance until we’re done here.”

Hondo doesn’t hesitate, nodding eagerly. “You drive a hard bargain! I have a tough choice to make! But the first- that sounds much much better,” he decides, grinning. “What are your conditions, my friend?”

Satisfied for the time being, Hunter allows his hand to fall to his side without yet holstering his blaster. “You do what I tell you. You don’t touch me. You don’t touch the kid. And when we find what we’re looking for, you don’t interfere,” he says sternly, counting out each object on his hand one by one as an added visual for the pirate. “Otherwise, you have free rein to whatever the hell you wanna take outta here with you. But we came here with a target, and we aren’t leavin’ without it. Understood?”

“Yes, that sounds like a very agreeable situation indeed,” Hondo goes on, taking a few short steps closer, extending a hand out towards the sergeant. “Shake on it, huh? Shall we solidify this wonderful new partnership?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

The Weequay bellows a laugh. “Bah! Fine, fine! No touching! Do I at least get the pleasure of knowing the names of my associates?”

He pauses for a moment. His name will hardly give away a thing about him, or any of them for that matter, yet he still pauses. He wishes he wouldn’t. Now more than ever, with a stranger on his tail, his apprehension has seriously got to remain unobtrusive. “…Hunter. And this… er-“

But before he can decide whether or not he’s going to let Omega introduce herself, or do it for her to limit her interactions with the pirate of whom he is not keen on allowing to get to close to his kid, said little girl tugs at his arm again. Rather fervently, in fact, leaning against him, sharp elbow catching his side in the space between his cuirass and his belt. She frowns, the corners of her wide brown eyes creased with concern as they flit over his helmet.

“Look-“ she hisses, pulling him by the arm until he’s forced to turn around entirely to avoid his shoulder out of place. He nearly stumbles over her, simultaneously attempting to look over his shoulder and keep an eye on Hondo while trying to stay calm and tend to the issue - whatever it is - in spite of himself, rather than giving into the urge to shown his own concern equal to that of what is written across her features. The only reason he doesn’t eat it on the floor is because of how shockingly strong her grip is, keeping him upright. Though, the room does seem to spin through his HUD, for a moment.

Hunter nearly shouts in surprise in the last fleeting seconds of fighting for his balance. “Kid, what’re you-“

But he doesn’t get the next words out. They die on his tongue in an instant, because he sees ‘it’ just as abruptly. That is, the issue that Omega is trying so hard to convey, or rather, show him. And suddenly, he understands the urgency and the anxiety all too well.

The storage compartment, the thin long room ahead of him, is, for the most part, empty. The floor space is freed up, save for scraps and debris like that of the foreboding thermal detonator shell scattered here and there about the surface. It’s the area by the back wall, and the wall itself, that Omega is referring to. Some ten feet out from the wall lies a wooden work table, covered in tools and project remnants and clutter reminiscent of Tech’s makeshift workspaces. A light cloth is draped across one half to cover whatever project is underneath, and a stack of blue flimsi sits precariously at the opposite corner, one disturbance short of toppling over all at once.

The main attraction is that of which lines the back wall; a series of seven-foot battery charging ports - six to be precise - placed one directly next to another the entire length of the wall. Each of the ports is occupied, too, by identical droids only a few inches short of the battery’s height. Rather than a set of standard units that Hunter would expect from some nobody with an interest in pilfering from the government, such as B-Ones or practical LEPs, these droids stick out like a puffer pig on a farm of tee-muss. Sleek, silver models dressed - yes, dressed - in tattered capes, with tall legs and red-tinted eyes dim with disuse. In one of each of their hands, sharp, though deactivated electrostaffs.

Hunter isn’t nearly as educated on droid models and mechanics as his brother, but these- these are hard to miss. He’s seen these before, FOUGHT them once, and these are hardly the sort of enemies that one simple disregards with time.

IG-One-Hundred MagnaGuards, the rare and infamously elite personal guards of Supreme Marshal Commander of the Separatist Droid Armies, General Grievous.

In a word: deadly.

Who the hell is this kid, and how in the Maker’s name did he acquire a set of these?

“What are they?” Omega murmurs, equal parts fascination and horror. “They look… dangerous.”

“Droids. Decommissioned Separatist droids, called MagnaGuards,” he replies warily, thumbing anxiously at his blaster, trigger finger itching to take them out while they’re vulnerable, distanced. “And they are dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. They were capable of-“ and he almost says ‘killing Jedi’ on instinct, because it’s true. That is part of what makes them so frightening. But Omega does not need to know that. “They’re very powerful, fought like sentient beings. Seppies had ‘em made to serve one very… important official, so the number produced was limited. But he’s dead now-“

“Ah- General Grievous’ personal bodyguards,” Hondo replies from the back, as if to ensure that he isn’t forgotten (which Hunter believes is downright impossible regardless). “They were a myth among pirates, you know, very terrifying stories were passed around, haha! Nobody stole from Grevious, we were not brave enough to try! But they do not look so bad, hm? Not like this. Bah! Now they look like nothing at all!” He shakes his head and chuckles shortly, almost mockingly, at the droids, squinting to get a better look.

Hunter turns to eye the pirate through his HUD, fighting down an exasperated sigh. “You’d be smart not to underestimate them now, either. We don’t know what triggers them. We should get looking elsewhere and keep this room closed. Leave it alone,” he says firmly, jerking his head in the direction of the door still left open.

With the bunker’s power running, he can feel the pulses of the overhead lights, as well as whatever additional electrical systems the previous owner had up and running, one of which, he can feel rather clearly, is in this room. He hadn’t paid it much mind, at first, seeing as how it could have been any number of sources and he had the pirate to deal with. But those droids, even if he does not know whether or not they’re actually operational, are at least capable of charging. He can feel it in the tingling of his fingers, and beneath his feet. Unmistakable magnetic pulses.
These droids weren’t left untouched or discarded by the boy who had them last, that much is for certain.

The safe thing to do is, again, to leave, warn the others not to disturb the space, and keep moving. As the mystery of who this ‘collector’ was and how he acquired his increasingly rare and dangerous assortment of goods, the sergeant is becoming more eager to locate Phee’s target, and split. MagnaGuard droids were just about the very last thing that Hunter never expected to encounter again in his lifetime, let alone here of all places. Let alone on a job to retrieve a sword for a loosely defined friend, after the war, as a technical fugitive, hidden in some weird kid’s old bunker on the Outer Rim. Let alone with his damn daughter in tow.

Once, and only once, his squad was tasked to take out a set of IG-One-Hundreds during the war. A new set had been ordered for General Grievous after a skirmish with a few Jedi resulted in the loss of several of his guardsmen. Clone Force Ninety-Nine had, at the time, been rather close to where the Holowan Mechanicals transport carrying the product would be dropping out of hyperspace to refuel, and the Jedi council directly ordered them to intercept and destroy the cargo.

They snuck onto the ship while it was docked just fine, went by unnoticed and proceeding to the holding bay. Then a slip-up by Wrecker and the lack of an authorization code triggered the security system which, of course, just so happened to be the droids themselves that were being carried. It was a fight that Hunter has since blocked out most of the details for, but it was categorically brutal. One round of bruised ribs for the lot of them and electrical shocks powerful enough to put him in the medbay for two days due to the migraine they had caused him.

The truth of the matter is that their skill as a special operations unit made it a significantly better outcome than it could have been, and where Jedi had died against those same droids, his squad had lived with only minor injuries. But that didn’t change the shock of the combat, and the unpreparedness they had been faced with when matched against opponents that no clone was ever trained for on the assumption that these were the Jedi’s enemies to handle.

He would rather never relive that feeling. And with Omega involved? Definitely not. He’d sooner tear his own eyes out.

Yet Hondo only scoffs dismissively. Proof that he has never had the pleasure of firsthand experience. “I am sure they are not as bad as you say like this! Look at them! Besides, I am sure they are valuable, an opportunity for plenty of credits-“

“You agreed to do as I say,” Hunter growls, snapping his head in the pirate’s direction fully. “It’s not too late for me to change my mind.”

“A quick look couldn’t hurt-“

“My patience is wearing very thin,” the sergeant reiterates, shaking his blaster for emphasis.

“Okay okay okay, no touching,” Hondo hastens to relent, ever-jumpy man that he appears to be. He really must not be armed, if he’s this easy to shut up. That, or he’s just stupid.

Probably both, Hunter reasons.

Just as he’s about to grab Omega’s shoulder and steer both her and their new problem out of the room, - albeit by differing means - she squeezes his hand, and a sudden deep frown is marring her face. Cautious and afraid, and so terribly unfitting of such a young a face. The face of his kid. She almost seems… shocked, and by what, he hasn’t any idea. Is it supposed to be obvious? He can’t possibly be that oblivious-

“Hunt’a, I- er-“ she starts, stuttering over her words, her eyes flickering between him, and the droids, before landing momentarily on Hondo, and then returning to meet his own. She hesitates, eyes glossy with… something. As if she’s trying to tell him what comes next without having to say so outright. “It’s- I-,” she stammers, her eyes dramatically wide, glancing determinedly towards Hondo a second time with a near comical aggression to her side-eyeing. She blinks at Hunter, begging for him to understand, and when he regrettably does not, she sighs, giving a small, vague gesture in the direction of herself, and presses her lips together impatiently.

Sure, there are a great many things that they cannot or should not say in front of those they don’t know, let alone in front of this guy, some shady, no-good pirate who followed them here on feather-light footsteps. But the anticipation of what he does not know that his daughter once again deems so urgent has him seconds from wanting her to say it aloud anyway. If it’s this important, that she need let him know but mustn’t let Hondo in on, then what-

Oh.

Shit. His own eyes expand beneath his helmet, heart pumping.

She must sense something in the force, something that matters enough to have gotten her attention and require his. Of course she can’t say it outright then. Nobody outside of their circle, their family, can ever know, least of all this untrustworthy skug. Nobody. It has to remain their secret, otherwise, she is as good as dead. The Empire will hunt her down, they’ll take her away, or kill her. Maybe both. And Maker help him, he’ll lose himself if he loses his little girl. She can’t take the risk of relaying what it is she’s sensed, yet somehow, he needs to find out.

It isn’t like he can simply send Hondo outside the door and tell him to wait without, one, appearing incredibly suspicious and practically giving it away that they’ve got a ‘valuable’ secret, and two, believing that the pirate is going to obedient position himself outside and out of ear shot. He’ll probably run off, lock them in the room, try to listen in. It’s too much of a risk, and they’re both perfectly smart enough to realize that. What can he possibly do about it? This is about as backed into a corner as the sergeant can ever remember being.

“Ah, kid- why don’t we-“ he starts, ready to wing it and see what he can come up with as he goes, just as he is interrupted by the fizzling of his comm built into his helmet.

‘Hunter? Do you… ehem… repeat, do you copy?’ Tech’s voice filters through the speaker and into Hunter’s ear. ‘…moment, I can… connection improved…’

They’re checking in, and Tech is trying to better the communications connection. That much is easy enough to gather. So he waits before replying, first glancing over in the direction of Hondo, the Weequay watching him and Omega with a curious and waiting eyes, wanting whatever is coming next. Even though Hunter already knows that his helmet comm can’t be heard by whomever isn’t wearing it, his lack of a reaction to an added voice proves that Hondo can’t hear it. Neither can Omega, her comm not going off by the sound of it, likely disabled by interference, less advanced than the ones built into their helmets. She doesn’t react, either.

Therefore, he’ll be strategic in his responses. He has the advantage of keeping him ‘out of the loop’, so to speak.

‘Ah, there,’ Tech’s voice pipes up a second time. ‘Ehem. Hunter. Miss Omega. Do you copy?’

Pressing the side of his helmet, Hunter raises his chin. “Copy. Havoc’s One and Five.” Hondo whips his head up curiously at the reply to a voice he cannot hear, while Omega picks at the hem of her sleeve, knowing without needing to be told what is going on, waiting with bated breath and a nearly tangible, lingering unsurety in relation to what she’s sensed.

‘Code names for what purpose?’ Tech’s always been easy to catch on.

“We have a hostage. A lone pirate. Says he’s here to loot the place, but he’s non-threatening,” Hunter replies, sending Hondo a pointed look even if the pirate isn’t able to see it. He stares back with an illusory innocence, and a mild indignance as if to say his assessment of the man is inaccurate or offensive. “He’s under our surveillance. We’ll be keepin’ an eye on him for now while we locate the target. He’s agreed to cooperate on our terms. If necessary I’ll incapacitate him and feed him to the loth-wolf.” The pirate simply hangs his head disapprovingly.

‘Wrecker will be thrilled to do the honors I am sure,’ he laughs shortly in reference to their brother. That is, the metaphorical loth-wolf. ‘He cannot hear us I am sure? I can see that Omega’s comm does not appear to be online. I suspect her handheld model is experiencing interference, though I had hoped we would not run into that issue once the power had been restored, which I have managed, of course,’ he rambles on for a moment, pausing only to breathe. ‘Are any other codes required at this time? If he need be further dealt with, I can spare Wrecker now should you wish.’

“Negative on all fronts. But we have a second potential complication,” Hunter proceeds bluntly. “Previous owner kept some droids here. Six MagnaGuards locked in the first storage facility down the eastern corridor on the left. Don’t engage. We don’t know how functional they are or where they came from.”

Tech’s voice is laced with an instantaneous wonder. ‘MagnaGuards… here? Fascinating-‘

And knowing how dangerous THIS tone can be, the sergeant cuts him off. “On task, soldier. Plans aren’t changin’. Sitrep?”

‘Right, yes-‘ and Tech clears his throat as if to move on. ‘There is in fact a central computer system, ripe with excavated files, both encrypted and otherwise. Echo is downloading them to a datarod as we speak, but I expect that it will take quite a while. There is an abundance. I would be remiss to leave anything unexplored,’ Tech explains, sounding excited by the prospect of what he may uncover. So Phee’s intel has, thus far, proven continuously accurate. Ironic, considering their last excursions of hers, but it is a good sign. ‘Wrecker and I will commence our search once I am sure that Echo is set up to finish the job on his own. I trust you will keep us updated.’

“Affirmative. We’ll contact you with anything we find.”

‘Excellent. I will do the same. For now I shall sign off and update the others. Send me your coordinates remotely so that we can be certain which area to avoid in regards to the droids.’

The comm clicks off as soon as Tech finishes speaking. Short and sweet and to the point. Hondo’s expression is as unknowing if not more confused than it was when the conversation began. A small success, something having gone smooth under their belts in comparison to the mounting pressure of added issues that, quite frankly, he could not have anticipated if her tried. Especially the MagnaGuards. Which, of course, don’t look like they’ll be a problem unless activated. But that hardly means he can count them out as an issue all the same. He hasn’t any idea what may trigger them purely by mistake.

It’s reassuring to know that Tech and the others are having an easier time of things on their front. No matter what the intel is that’s stored in that computer, or where it came from, it’s bound to have some use or another. This boy clearly had channels to go through, if the droids are any indication. Still, he’s got Omega’s connection to the force to deal with, somehow. He’s not sure how to approach that, because it wouldn’t be any trouble were Hondo not here. Yet, here he is now, and they’ve made a deal, even if Hunter is anything by thrilled about it. Unless Hondo acts up, - which he will admit he’s counting on happening to some extent or another - he intends to honor it. They can’t afford to make enemies anymore than Hunter is willing to make friends.

“Hostile! I have offered you my friendship, eh? I have no intention of hurting you!” Hondo insists, breaking his thoughts and garnering attention once again. He must live off of it. Needs it as much as he does air, this one. “You and I? We can be good friends, haha! Your attitude, no no no. Unnecessary. I have been a friend to clone troopers a long time-“

“We’ll see about that. Let’s- just get movin’,” he mutters, laying a hand over Omega’s shoulder. “Sooner we’re done, sooner we’re out. And the sooner we-“ he enunciates, beckoning between himself and his kid, and Hondo. “-can part ways.”

Omega seems to consider this for a moment, before glancing back at the droids, and nodding curtly. “Right. Let’s go find the treasure,” she answers firmly, eyes narrowed as of to chase away the apprehension he can just barely pick up under her voice. And whether it’s to create the impression - however false - that there isn’t something bothering her, whether it’s about Hondo or otherwise, and keep the pirate off her trail, or to help herself feel better about it, she adds, “And I’m keeping you in line too, ya know. I have a bow. So you gotta behave.”

To his continued surprise, Hondo actually puts his hand up, and not in a manner that exudes mocking. “I am sure not to cross you, young lady, eh? No trouble! We could have a partnership-“

“Yeah yeah. Let’s go,” Hunter growls, rolling his eyes and pointing his blaster towards the door. “You first.”

For the first time since they’ve met, Hondo actually complies without any comment, dropping his hands and strutting forward with a prideful sort of attitude to his gait. Cocky, and unreasonably so.

Whatever. Hunter can’t possibly be bothered to make a fuss about it if it keeps them moving.

Steering Omega gently forward, the little girl walks with an attempted purpose to her step as if to continue to show Hondo that she means business. And while he’s certain that whatever disturbance she feels in the force is still present and entirely on her mind, her obvious - to him, that is - anxiety does seem to waver as if combatted by determination, of which she is known to possess a great deal.

Still, the guilt sits in Hunter’s chest. He wishes he could do more, yet he feels helpless. It’s a terrible biting feeling, not being able to understand, or knowing how to help. Whatever she can sense in the force is clearly bothersome, but they both know that the unfortunate situation doesn’t permit further discussion on the matter. He also reasons that, if she’s willing to concede the fact that it can’t be handled at the moment rather than insisting in spite of herself, than it must be more of an unease than anything serious. Surely she wouldn’t be willing to let it go so easily if it were.

Right. Of course. He won’t simply dismiss it, after all. They’ll come back to it as soon as they’ve got a moments freedom. That, he can promise.

Besides, he holds absolutely no qualms about shooting Hondo - to kill - if necessary, which is one potential problem solved as easily as it seems to have come about. He handled plenty of pirates during the war. As for the droids, those horrid creatures, he will close the door behind him and leave them to rot under lock and key. So long as they aren’t operational, with nobody around to operate them in the first place, they can’t hurt his kid. If they did, it wouldn’t matter. He will tear them limb from limb, whatever it takes, the whole Galaxy as his witness. But he doesn’t want to imagine it. And he doesn’t want to find out. If they get that far, then they’ve already lost.

‘Then you’ve failed. And you’re nothing,’ elusive Crosshair reminds him.

Forcing his gaze forward to focus on Hondo, Hunter sighs and ushers his kid ahead by the shoulder, willing away the beginnings of a headache nipping at the edges of his brain.

“Come on. No more wasting time.”

Chapter Text

“Well then! Where do we begin, my friends?” Hondo chirps in the same moment that the door slams shut at the harsh impact of Hunter’s heel against the wall. No time for anyone to catch a breath. “Where does our search begin! What is it that we are looking for, eh! Might there be a path to take? A holomap to follow? Or, perhaps we ah, fan out, as you soldiers say, hm? ‘Split up’?”

The sergeant is acutely aware of the exhaustive beginnings of a headache, and the added ‘weight’ of Hondo’s audience, tugging at his already thin patience. If the overly bright, buzzing ceiling lights in the corridor don’t damage his senses and crush his fragile skull, then Hondo surely will. Hell, he might beat them to it.

“OUR search-“ Hunter replies, motioning between himself and Omega - and NOT Hondo - perched by his side and fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. “Has already started. You interrupted,” he drawls, tilting his head down towards Omega. “We’ll take one room at a time and see where that takes us, but let’s not go deeper into the facility than we have to. In and out operation. Eyes on the target.” She nods dutifully (of course she does), and Hunter jabs a finger now at Hondo. “And no. Since you already forgot, you go where we go until this is over. There is no ‘splitting up’.”

“Ah right! Of course, of course. This is a team effort!” Hondo grins, nodding emphatically. What Hunter wouldn’t give to wipe that grin off of his face all on his own. It would be so terribly easy. And yet, unfortunately, it appears to be perpetually stuck there. How awful that must be. For everyone.

Omega frowns. “Team effort? you’re supposed to be our hostage, remember?” she reminds him, brows raised, chin held high. “You have to behave, or else Hunter will tie you up. And you made a deal! It’s only right to honor it,” she insists, hiking up her shoulders as if to appear taller, even though she is barely half of Hondo’s height. “And you’re outnumbered!”

“Bah! You know, you are a rather temperamental pair of individuals my dear,” Hondo frowns, shaking his head, before turning around proper to face the pair of them with arms bent and hands perched brazenly against his sides. “Alright- alright, then you can at least tell me what the- eh… treasure it is that you are looking for, hm? I do have my fair share of treasure hunting experience, no? I know a thing or two about locating stolen goods! I could be very very useful!” he tries, and Hunter does not miss the way he is more or less batting his eyes at them whilst grinning as if he expects it to work. Idiot.

“I’ve already told you that it’s none of your business. Hunter deadpans, aware of Omega’s eyes boring into him from his other side, shifting impatiently. “Remember that this is on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know. Mind yourself and this’ll be over quick.” That is, once they stop wasting time going back and forth with him like this. Stunning him and leaving him with Wrecker is looking progressively more appealing, that much is for certain. It may not be worth the trouble to keep him around after all.

“My expertise- it may make me a valuable asset to your business no?”

“No.”

“Oh, your dogged attitude is quite dreadful,” Hondo laments, tilting his head dramatically to one side. “Fine- surely, my dear-“ he huffs, directing his full attention to Omega. “You must be just a little bit more eh- reasonable, hm? Even you must see that there is SOME room for… ahhh, flexibility! Yes?”

Omega, however, merely shoots him an unamused look in response, one that she’s no doubt picked up from Tech over time; face slack, a slight frown visible on the edges of her lips, eyes blank. In other words, she doesn’t care for his antics anymore than her father, despite his efforts to appeal to her in lieu of his failures to get on Hunter’s good side. Hunter isn’t sure he’s ever been more proud than he is right now. He smirks under his helmet and taps the top of her cap with his knuckles in an affirming gesture, to which he notices her eyes glitter briefly.

“I truly am a prisoner here. It is very sad,” Hondo sighs, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

Hunter approaches the closest door a few paces ahead, - an identical aperture to the one before - lightly elbowing Hondo to ‘encourage’ him to do the same, to which he complies with an incoherent grumbling. “That’s what I told you,” he mutters. “Not sure what you were expecting.”

Truly, he isn’t. Hunter can’t honestly fathom what it is that Hondo was - clearly - expecting to happen, when the sergeant has made it abundantly clear as to what the terms of this ‘arrangement’ are from the very beginning without room for interpretation. ‘You do what I tell you.’ That is what Hunter said. Hondo had agreed to it; even tried to shake on it and all that. Yet Hondo’s vexing persistence, and his intrusive desire to further foist his way into their job, seemingly knows no bounds. And considering that even blatant threats do very little by way of getting him to cooperate without pushback for pushback’s sake, Hunter doesn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel; that is, a way of getting him to back down for good in spite of the deal.

What makes this all the more remarkably frustrating, too, is the fact that the sergeant is unable to determine exactly what angle Hondo is trying to play. Other than the obvious fortune and resource that every typical pirate in history has sought to gain, and the simple fact that an abandoned bunker full of stolen treasure is surely his greatest dream, what he hopes to get out of ‘helping’ Hunter and Omega with an objective unrelated to his own is unclear. There is no way in any of Corellia’s seven hells that his intentions are that of ‘friendship’ like he’s tried - and failed - to sell them on. What’s bothersome about it, however, is that Hunter is nothing if not adept at reading others, and yet, bemusedly, there is nothing that he is able to detect from Hondo that is indicative of a lie.

Hondo is a Weequay, a humanoid. Any of the most common and flawless unconscious tells when it comes to discerning a lie in a human like himself applies in much the same manner to a Weequay. Hunter knows that he would be able to pick it up because he has done so before, and on a multitude of occasions. But there is no quickened beating of Hondo’s heart, unevenness in his breathing, or an unnatural lilt to his tone. He doesn’t fidget with nervousness. He doesn’t fidget at all. In fact, he is about as collected as any man can be, lacking in worry and flawlessly laid-back. He has been ever since Hunter held the gun to his chest.

Either he’s a bonafide psychopath, or really, REALLY good at lying.

So, nothing short of unsettling.

At least it is no secret as to why he’s lacking in a crew. If it were any other pirate, this would be suspicious. But Hondo’s evident lack of charm and maddening behavior is reason enough as to why he’s on his own. One less thing to worry about.

Hondo’s head swivels without direction for a moment as he nearly stumbles over his own two feet coming to a halt when he reaches the door first, not at all mindful of where it is he’s going, before he hums noncommittally. “You know, I was an ally to the Republic during the Clone Wars, hm?” he informs them, bobbing his chin. “I provided supplies for your men once, and you, clone trooper- Hunter was it? Your men, they were an ally to me as well!” he adds, insistently, eyes wide as if excited. “Your troops, they help me, I help them, we are friends! You are indeed counted among them by default I should think! A friend of my friend- yes, that makes you a friend!”

“That so?” Hunter replies flatly, positioning himself between Hondo and Omega as they gather about the door a moment. “Last I checked, war isn’t the kinda place you ‘make friends’,” he frowns at the idea, and Omega’s brows furrow over her eyes as if equally confused by the suggestion. Not to mention that Hunter and his squad are nothing like the regs, though Hondo has no way of knowing and, given their status, Hunter intends to conceal as much. He sounds enough like a reg to pass, anyway. “Is that what the pirates who stole Republic supplies were doin’ too? ‘Makin’ friends?’” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm that feels unlike him.

For the first time since having met him, Hondo does not appear to have some ass-backwards rejoinder up his crusty sleeves, blinking owlishly instead as one second passes, then two, in stunned silence.

While Hondo appears to need time to consider a response (and he can take all the time he needs, so long as it keeps him quiet), Hunter takes advantage of the fact that he‘s distracted to give the door handle an experimental tug. Same as the last, the door has been left unlocked and swings open and outwards with little protest despite having some weight to it. Luckily, the back of this door is covered in little more than rust, a distinct lack of ominously placed wires greeting him on the other side, thank the Maker. He’s not entirely sure what he’ll feel compelled to do if they find anything remotely similar to - as dangerous as - the room full of innately homicidal droids, but he will definitely be sure to take out any hypothetical frustration on Hondo.

With the lights now up and running proper, the room ahead is viewable at full disclosure without the need for Hunter’s half-alive torch, which is undeniably a nice change of pace. Better still is the initial absence of anything that makes his heart stop beating, nothing that he can hear or feel that immediately sets off the trigger-happy alarm bells in his brain. The room is still, long-undisturbed, coated in a thick dust, and more or less a holo copy of the bunker’s entrance. Stacks of crates and boxes litter the room, some floor to ceiling, cabinets and shelves are pressed into the corners and against the walls. A few tools lay discarded on the floor as if they had been dropped there in a haste. It’s something of a mess, really, and he can feel that headache he’s tried so hard to deter pushing a little harder at the back of his mind.

Considering they have no leads as to the exact whereabouts of the blade they’ve got to retrieve, and where they just came from, however, this is as good a place to start as any.

Hunter jerks his chin towards the inside of the room, laying his palm on Omega’s chest as a motion to ‘back up’, and takes two steps back himself to allow Hondo in first. The pirate enters this time without so much as a gesture of indignation or annoyance at the fact he’s being made to take the lead for the sake of his supervision, but he does clear his throat dryly in the same moment, and takes his sweet old time to start moving as his wits seem to catch up with him.

“Friends can be found in ve-ry strange places. And I was not one of those pirates, stealing from the Republic!” he finally replies with an air of vague incredulity, as if such an accusation is anything but warranted, evidently having now decided how Hunter’s otherwise rhetorical question ought to be taken. Glancing back at them, his eyes falling on Hunter with a look the sergeant can’t decipher, he slips his hands into his pockets lazily. “…Not most of time, hm?” He adds slowly. And there it is, Hunter thinks. “Not once I became a friend to the army, no no! When you have friends, you help each other! Then you do not need to steal! You share!”

Omega shuffles ahead of Hunter to follow the Weequay and tilts her head to one side. The sergeant reaches forward instinctively to place a hand on her back and keep her from getting too close to the pirate due to the natural allure of her curiosity. “But you still stole from them?” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Right?”

“I had a change of heart!” Hondo quickly clarifies a second time, not at all keen on dropping the subject, clearly. Perhaps letting him tell his stories will get it out of his system, if anything. He must have his limits, too, prone to exhaustion given enough time. “I struck up a partnership with Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was then that I began to work with the Republic for our mutual benefit! Him and I, yes, we became the very best of friends!”

“Uh-huh,” Hunter mutters aridly, brushing off Hondo’s conspicuously untrue story (that he seems far too eager to try and convince them has any merit) as he steps fully into the compartment behind Omega. He does not have the time to bother with entertaining some pirate’s tales of the Jedi of all things. “Stay on track. And watch the idle chatter.”

“Idle chatter-“ Hondo echoes back, frowning. “Surely it can help to pass the time while you work, since you do not want my help-“

The sergeant sighs and shoulders passed him, rather than choosing to perpetuate an argument that he’s beginning to learn isn’t going to go anywhere so long as Hondo can think of more to say. That’s what it is he seems to enjoy in particular: not arguing, per-say, but talking only for the sake of filling silence, even if he hasn’t got anything meaningful to add. Hunter has an awfully strong feeling that the persistent beginnings of his headache are going to win out this time around, but there isn’t much he can do for it now. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not in the grand scheme. What matters is completing the job, and that’s what he’s got to do, throbbing skull or not.

Giving the space a scrutinizing once over, he bites the inside of his cheek. The most efficient method of managing any sort of mess such as this, he knows, would be to take it in pieces. Omega on one side, Hunter on the other. Eventually, when his brothers have finished and they’ve regrouped, they can - as Hondo so desperately seems to desire - split up through the corridor, and cover twice as much ground twice as fast. Assuming all of this takes that long, of course. That may ultimately allow them to recover some of the precious time lost to Hondo’s meandering and the like. That is, once he can get the pirate to cooperate enough that he isn’t a total distraction.

The issue now lies in the obvious fact that he hasn’t yet decided how to do that.

When all is said and done, Hunter is honestly oddly alright with the idea that he’s essentially going to be reduced to ‘babysitting’ a grown man if that’s what it is standing in the way of getting what he wants. Which is, ultimately, a future for his daughter, for whom he is willing to do a hell of a lot more and a hell of a lot worse than all of this. Put wholly into perspective, Hondo is nobody special, nothing more than just ‘one more thing’ on a long list of ‘one more thing’s standing between him, and the life he was brought into this Galaxy to fulfill. Hunter hoped it would be easy before, and that has been his own mistake, because he has never been given anything without it first putting up a fight.

But nothing, absolutely nothing at all, is capable of stopping him from succeeding in the end. No matter what that really means, even if it leads to a fate for Hondo that Hunter would rather not resort to, giving his kid a life, - a real, honest-to-the-Maker life - that’s all he could possibly want now and forever. He will get it. Somehow, he will get it. And this is the closest he’s ever been. His brothers, his daughter, they’ll get a real chance in this Galaxy if it kills him. Which, truly, has never been ruled out as a possibility, however he has placed it starkly behind the finish; a last resort. He would ideally (and that’s quite an understatement) like to be here to see their future, and be just as much a part of it as he is now, too.

Besides, he knows realistically, as much as he’d rather not entertain the thought, that this could be far worse. It could be functioning MagnaGuards. It could be the Empire. It could be a whole slew of pirates pillaging the bunker for all it’s worth, leaving them outmanned and out of luck. Instead, it’s just one pirate. One man. All on his own, stupid, stumbling, and somehow, blessedly, unarmed.

He glances over at the pirate a moment to find him picking at his own fingers with a recognizable air of impatience. So what IS Hunter going to do with him? It’s going to be difficult to put his full effort into finding Phee’s target while he’s also trying to keep a constant eye on someone else. Both require ample attention. The best course of action would be to have Hondo shadow him at all times, where he can hear his breathing and his heartbeat and monitor him in close quarters. Not that he can’t hear him from a considerable distance of course, but that he also needs to be able to act in enough time to stop Hondo from doing things that he shouldn’t, which he seems to have quite the propensity for already.

Technically speaking, the only draw-back there is… constant close quarters with Hondo. That may drive the sergeant into madness. He’s fully confident that his patience will be tested, and he’s likely doomed to fail and lose his cool sooner than later.

But that’s going to have to be the sacrifice he makes here, isn’t it? Hondo will probably deserve it anyway.

“A’right. Kid, you take that half’a the room,” he starts, tapping a finger against Omega’s shoulder blade to draw her attention up to him and beckoning with his other hand to his left. “Look through everything that opens, but be careful where you stick your hands. Don’t go diggin’ blindly through any crates. And if theres somethin’ you can’t reach, ask for help. Be smart, yeah? Don’t want you gettin’ hurt,” he orders seriously, and Omega nods her head determinedly in reply, eyes wide and an eager expression painted across her face. “If there’s anything you need, holler.”

The little girl hardly waits for him to finish before flashing him a wry smile and darting off towards the far corner of the compartment to take up her given task, a certain bounce to her step that is distinctly childlike. It makes his heart swell for a good, long moment.

And now, he is left with Hondo.

He turns his whole body to face the pirate, remaining aware of the comfort of Omega’s heartbeat close by and thrumming at the back of his ears as constant reassurance that she’s still present at breathing, first and foremost. “You’re with me. You know the rules. Stick to them and stay close by and this will go very smoothly for all of us, got it?”

“Of course, of course!” Hondo agrees hastily, throwing his hands up and grinning briefly, before furrowing his brows. “Eh- but just to be clear,” and Hunter wishes so terribly that he could afford to take his helmet off and pin Hondo with the aggravated look reflexively twisting his features directly. “If it is not what you, my friend, are looking for in particular, I may help myself, yes?” he asks, and the sergeant swears the Weequay is batting his damn eyes beyond his goggle lens in the same manner as that he’s seen from dancing Twi’leks.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Hunter replies, laying a rough hand over the pirate’s shoulder and steering them both towards the nearest set of boxes stacked against the wall on their right; three crates high, the top-most skewed ever so slightly off balance. “It’s probably a load of junk anyway.”

“You can find value in anything! You have just got to know where to look for it!” Hondo says, as if he’s citing some profound mantra, a hand on his chest, winking. “And, who to sell it to for the right amount of credits!”

Naturally.

Making the responsible decision to ignore Hondo again, Hunter reaches passed him instead to grab the crate at the top of the stack, lifting it carefully on three fingers, enough to first test its weight. It’s light, maybe only half full, and the clasp on the lid is loose, hanging on to the box by a metallic bolt so small he’s got to squint in order to see it even in the fluorescent lighting. Whatever’s inside, he can feel it all jostling around against the inner walls and shifting to the edge furthest from him while minutely rustling against one another, quiet enough that even he can barely hear it. Something thin. Definitely not home to an entire sword. But he’d best see it with his own eyes, anyway. Better to be thorough than dismissive.

In one fluid motion, he yanks it off the middle crate with one hand and pops the clasp with the other as it clatters unceremoniously against the floor. When he flips the lid open, it flies back, and nearly gives into a recoil by way of the natural pull of gravity before bouncing once, twice, then settling backwards to reveal its contents. And, because he has had more than his fair share of inspecting nondescript cargo in the past, he was right in suspecting it’d be nothing of interest. The crate doesn’t weigh much because it is occupied by old, marked-up sheets of flimsi that seem to have been thrown in here and there while accumulating over time. Some depict uneven lines and dots and scribbles that might add up to makeshift maps or blueprints of sorts, while the others are crowded with notes taken in messy aurebesh.

He picks up the first piece of flimsi that his fingers find, turning it over in his hand. Both sides are covered in these notes, every letter and occasional numeral bordering on illegible, pressed against the next. It is, however, readable nonetheless, as he scans his eyes over the first few lines with contorted confusion marring his face.

‘The Comark Brooch should still be in the family’s possession, but I have no way of knowing,’ it starts, almost like that of a journal entry, perhaps, more so than notes. Hunter raises a brow, curious mostly as to what the purpose of documenting such a thing could be. ‘Regardless, it’ll fetch a pretty-credit on the black market if I can ever swipe it for myself. Unfortunately, traveling to Chandrila also costs pretty credits that I don’t have, especially since I got no idea where it is for sure, but I’ll keep my ears open for any mention of the old thing. I’m sure they won’t miss it.’

His best guess is that this belonged to the bunker’s most recent inhabitant, used as a means of trying to keep track of the various artifacts and treasures that he aimed to collect. That adds up, considering what Phee told them about him. Though, Hunter’s not too sure how marking it down only to toss it haphazardly into a bin of near identical other messes was of any help. How in the Maker’s name did he ever find which notes he was looking for in here without losing his mind to time? And why not just use a datapad, when he’s clearly left behind a computer system that he had been using at one point or another?

Suddenly, Hondo’s arm flies forward in front of Hunter to snatch not one, but several of the sheets of flimsi for himself. Hunter’s eyes widen behind his HUD, slightly startled by the abruptness of the motion, as he watches the pirate hold each sheet up just inches away from his face as if studying them fervently.

Hunter is willing to bet a lot of credits that he’s hardly reading it.

“Interesting,” Hondo announces, - rather astute, isn’t it? - drawing out each letter like he’s never been more intrigued by anything in his entire life. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Oh yeah?” the sergeant mutters indifferently, nudging the crate aside with his foot, perfectly happy to leave Hondo to it if it will keep him occupied and out of Hunter’s way. He can’t imagine getting any use out of the late collector’s inner thoughts, anyway. And it’s one less thing to worry about; one less crook to comb through hoping to strike aurodium.

“Oh yes, most definitely, my friend,” Hondo replies, as Hunter grabs at the middle box, yanking it off the bottom and and tossing it to floor beside the first. It’s not quite as light, but hardly heavy, either. It smacks against the floor with a disturbed sort of thud and a rattling inside. “This man, he was on a hunt for a great many treasures that not even I have heard of! Some of which may be kept inside this very bunker as we are speaking!” he exclaims, genuine and airy excitement ringing in his voice with every deep syllable. Hunter tries to drown it out with the lingering clinking of whatever it is he’s found now. “He was a very eh- ambitious man! It is admirable how much he aimed to achieve- the valuable pieces he aimed to ah, collect!”

That’s certainly a way to put it, Hunter thinks while unclipping this latch with pinched fingers. Even if it was the Empire he was stealing from, this boy was something of a larcenist if anything, and as impressive as it may be, ‘admirable’ isn’t necessarily the word he would use to describe it. Not that he can judge, given his squad’s current line of work, and means of survival. Though hopefully not for much longer.

“Sounds like he was in over his head to me,” Hunter frowns. And that part is true.

This lid feels as though it may be sticky beneath his gloved fingers, and he makes a mental note to wash them later while he peels it open and throws it back. It’s another mess of junk piled on top of one another, - not that he excepted anything more, really - mostly tools that he recognizes as being Imperial (once Republic) standard issue, a handful of spare blaster parts and unused cartridges littered among them. He pushes back the top layer of disaster to get a better look inside, submerging his hand into the sea of durasteel and digging around for a good long moment. He feels for anything out of place, but all he gets in return is a mark left on his vambrace by the edge of a sharp tool the he can feel scraping angrily against its side.

He pulls his arm free and moves onto the next with little fanfare, the process unchanging. He jostles the box in place some to get a mental reading, met with a rattling identical to that of its predecessor. Unclipping the latch with one hand and opening up the crate with the other, he mutters a curse under his breath when the tip of one finger catches on a loose bolt. More pilfered tools, parts belonging to deconstructed weapons and chunks of scrap that, while visibly salvaged, don’t seem to have served any recent purpose. More junk, unless Tech has a need for anything, though he didn’t agree to this job with the intention of it turning into a supply run of any sort.

Glancing around the room a moment, Hunter digs his fingers into his palms; the entire compartment is much the same. There has got to be a better way to do this, rather than rummaging through each individual crate two at a time. This was supposed to be quick. In and out. But unless this unsystematic clutter is not as widespread as it appears, he has the growing suspicion that they’ll be here a while longer than he had hoped.

Nothing ever does go according to plan, does it?

“Hunt’a!”

The sergeant jumps, startled out of his thoughts by Omega yelling his name at the near top of her lungs, his hand moving towards his blaster purely on instinct. He whips his head back to find her, to make sure that she’s alright, snapping his head around to look for Hondo, too. The fear that something bad has happened, something that he missed because he’s been distracted two seconds too long, becomes palpable in an instant. The pirate, however, has not moved other than to flip through more of the flimsi, remaining at Hunter’s side exactly as he was instructed to (go figure). Omega, meanwhile, is crouched on the floor at the far corner of the room, holding something small and square in both hands above her head.

Her ruffled blonde bangs hang over part of her face as if she too had been moving her head in a frantic sort of manner, and a huge smile is plastered across her face. Hunter recognizes now, as the haze of panic starts to clear, an undeniable eager lilt to her tone, and a sparkle in her eyes that he can see even at a short distance. She’s fine. More than fine, by the look of things. Excited, even.

Moving his hand away from his blaster as casually as he as able, hoping that he reaction didn’t show, Hunter straightens up and eyes Hondo through his HUD. The pirate’s interest has, of course, been peaked by Omega’s exclamation, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed Hunter’s visceral reaction. Good. The very last thing he needs right now is to accidentally give Hondo any ideas by demonstrating how fearful a man he really is below his hardened exterior when it comes to Omega. Maker forbid. “Whatcha got over there, kid?” he asks evenly.

WORK “It’s a droid’s shock prod!” she replies, waving a bulky heap of what is evidently old, degraded machinery over her head with an unbridled enthusiasm that contrasts how serious she’s tried to act since Hondo showed up. “It’s kinda old, but this crate is filled with parts! There’s a spare motivator, and a powerbus cable- and there’s a circuit board like AZI’s! Can I keep some?” she says pleadingly, almost out of breath with excitement, eyes practically bugging out of her skull, shimmering with hopefulness. “Please? I promise to be careful!”

Hunter so often wishes that telling her no was easier. He would do anything to keep that smile on her face, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s not keen on the idea of letting her carry sharp machine parts around in her pocket, maybe he’d entertain the thought of scavenging bits and pieces of equipment. He’s sure Tech could put it to good use, or Echo, and worse come to worse, the pair of them end up tinkering with it and stripping it down for even smaller parts. Omega herself could no doubt get something out of those old wires in her seemingly endless escapade to improve Gonky’s performance. But there’s something about letting his kid collect rusty metal that doesn’t exactly sit right.

Besides, surely she’ll find something else in all this mess that she’ll end up finding far more interesting that scrap.

“Let’s stay on task, kid,” he says gently, tilting his head to one side. “We still have a lot of ground to cover, and I need free hands. I’m sure you can salvage better as we go,” he offers, because that’s easier than refusing her outright.

Luckily for them both, her enthusiasm doesn’t seem to falter. “Right!” she returns in an affirmative, eyes sparkling at the prospect of exploration. He watches her toss the shock prod back into the crate, where it clatters against what he assumes is the rest of the mess of parts.

Sighing, Hunter takes a moment to ground himself all over again. This may take a while, but it will all be worth it to keep that smile on her face. It’s got to work out. The Galaxy cannot truly be so cruel as to lead him on so long only to reveal that this ends in failure. ‘Or does it?’ Crosshair’s voice sneers. ‘Don’t get too soft now, it isn’t over yet. Anything can happen.’ Hunter grounds his teeth, forcibly banishing the smooth drawl, glaring at his feet. He won’t allow it. And if it takes time, then fine, so be it.

“So! What is the deal with eh- you and the girl, hm?” Hondo chirps, leaning in over Hunter’s shoulder.

The sergeant sucks a harsh breath in through his nose, straightening his back. He elbows Hondo lightly to create some space between them, maneuvering to face him. “What?”

Hondo, holding bunched up flimsi in tight fists, peers curiously at Hunter through his goggles. “The child. Where did you come to acquire her, hm? I did not often meet clone troopers who were accompanied by children!” he laughs, shaking his head. “I do not take her to be the soldier type! And taking children out into the field! It must be very very dangerous, hm? Irresponsible, perhaps?” Hondo tilts his head back and forth with a cheeky sort of grin that makes him look as troublesome as he sounds.

Hunter isn’t sure how he feels about being criticized by a pirate, but it’s far from good, and it’s making him a little angry, if anything. “Oh yeah? And what would you do? Think you could do better?” he hisses, lowering his voice and casting a glance in Omega’s direction to ensure she isn’t listening. She’s not, at least not that he can tell; her head is buried in whatever it is she’s combing through now at the far end of the room, engrossed by something other than him, exuding a sense of focus that he’s come to recognize as meaning she’s probably not as hyper-aware of her surroundings as she usually would be otherwise.

“Ah, funny you say! Now I may not look it, but I actually have quite a bit of experience with children myself. Yes, friends of Kenobi’s during the Clone War! I was an ally, as I told you! They were good kids, hm?” he sounds wistful in the midst of his supposed recollection, and if Hunter didn’t know any better, he might have though the Weequay sounds a little sad. “But! I digress, hm? We are still new friends, now is not the time or the place to think all about the past! This is the present!” he laughs again. “What was I saying? Ah- yes. The girl. She is an intriguing little specimen! I would not have pegged you as a babysitter!”

Ironic, considering their current arrangement. “The only sentient being that I’ve ever had to babysit is you,” Hunter bites back, as sharp as he had hoped it would be.

Hondo gasps and frowns. “Well then! I will admit, I have been trying to puzzle it out, yes? To take a guess, figure this out on my own!” he explains, waving one hand around aimlessly. “She follows your orders rather obediently, no? Like a soldier! But surely she is not! So, how does one quantify this… relation that you two appear to have, eh?” He presses his lips together as if trying to ‘puzzle it out’ even now, a genuine curiosity radiating off of him that Hunter finds unnerving.

“She’s-“ and Hunter stops, snapping his mouth back shut as soon as it’s open.

His instinctual response, requiring no real thought as it sits patiently at the very tip of his tongue as if it has been there forever (and maybe it has), is to tell Hondo, plain and simple, that ‘she’s my daughter’. And he nearly does, before catching himself thanks (or no thanks, depending on how he decides to look at it) to the bitter, scathing unease nipping endlessly at his heels.

Of all of the things he has not told Hondo as a rule, can he look the pirate in the eye and trust him with his most sacred truth? The seldom-spoken reality of his existence, and the fundamental part of who he has grown to become; a father. The answer should be a stark and easy ‘no’. Of all of the things he absolutely cannot let Hondo in on for fear that he may turn around and weaponize or exploit them, this should be at the top of the list. If he learns what Omega means to the sergeant… it could put them all - but most importantly Omega - in unspeakable danger. It risks putting an even bigger target on her back than what she’s already got cruelly by default, as much as he tries not to think about it.

Still, he is caught off guard. Nobody has ever asked him before, outright, and maybe - no, definitely - he has subconsciously been waiting for this moment; Omega chose him, silently and unconditionally, to have a very special place in her life that he is nothing short of proud of fulfill, for reasons he may never fully understand, but accepts without a moment’s hesitation. No, proud doesn’t ever begin to describe it. And it must be this long-buried paternal instinct, too, that nearly draws the vulnerability out of him as thoughtlessly as his lungs draw breath. It is equal parts frightening, and relieving, as if a weight has been lifted off of his chest only to be replaced by another, heavier truth.

That is, his fear. His paranoia. And the awful fact that both possess such a powerful hold on him that the mere idea of openly stating that Omega is his kid, even without all of the nitty-gritty details, to anyone outside of a small and exclusive circle consisting of little more than his family drives him to a point of reeling anxiety. He feels as though he is suffocating under a pressure partially of his own design, his chest moments from giving out. And not in the relative comfort and safety of his own ship, - that, he can deal with, all things considered - but here, now, cornered by a pirate and his own conscience.

What the fuck is his problem?

Whatever it is, he needs to handle it. Now. Right now.

“She’s a part of my squad,” he says dryly, voice coming out a faint rasp that he barely notices. Doesn’t matter. He couldn’t prevent it if he had had the chance to try.

Hondo grimaces, an expression dripping with skepticism marring his face. “A part of your squad, hm?” he repeats back slowly, unbelievably, like he thinks he’s so smart; like he thinks he knows better. Hunter despises that tone. His mounting upset certainly is not helping. “A child soldier, that does not seem to… add up to what I have seen before. Es-pecially a girl! You clone troopers, you are supposed to keep the children out of harms way, no?” And suddenly, the sergeant’s skin is crawling beyond reasonable amassment. “To take the girl out into the field, it seems too dangerous! She does not appear too broken up about it, I suppose, but either way! I would have pegged you a better caretaker, haha! With that eh- rather defensive way you carry yourself-“

One second, Hunter’s vision is blurry with angry delirium, the space around him tainted gray by the screen of his HUD view, and the next, his hand is wrapped around Hondo’s collar in a white-knuckled grip. The pirate’s eyes blow wide in surprise, fisting the flimsi still in his hands. He radiates fear. Good, the sergeant thinks, staring him directly in his buggy eyes even if he cannot see Hunter’s own. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch yourself?” he growls quietly, throat pulled taut. “I warned you to stay in line.”

“Now now- I don’t mean to offend-“

“Shut up.” Hunter snaps, his top and bottom teeth clashing together hard enough to he can feel it in his skull. The very last thing he needs is for Hondo to stand here and scrutinize him, on top of every thing else. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. None. And you being here is already messing with a whole load of bantha-shit that you don’t understand, without the commentary,” he says, simple and to the point, and nearly under his breath because he is seething, and he can hardly raise his volume at all without screaming. “So I suggest you keep your damn comments to yourself before I kick you ahead twenty rotations.”

Hondo being here is risking the entire job, jeopardizing the outcome. He’s a faulty cog in the machine, a symbol of impending failure if not rectified. And without this job, Hunter - and his whole family, Omega - will be back at square one. No large sum of credits that bails them out of this life for good. No settling down, building a future for his daughter.

If Hondo takes THAT away from him, the sergeant is going to take a hell of a lot worse away from Hondo.

The Weequay sputters aimlessly, blinking and glancing around as if looking for a way out. Too bad he hasn’t got one. And it’s his own damn fault. Hunter doesn’t feel bad. “You and I, we are alike!” Hondo says pleadingly, flashing a shoddy grin. “Both just trying to survive, eh? We- should stick together! Work together! That is all I want, swear it up and down, my friend! I am only trying to lighten the mood-“

“I’m not laughing.”

“Yes I can see th-“

Hunter leans in a little closer, twisting the pirate’s collar ever so slightly in his grip. “Then stop. Fooling. Around,” he hisses through clenched teeth. His muscles are tense, the arm keeping Hondo in place as stiff as it can be. And the pirate doesn’t move, either because Hunter has finally gotten through to him (which he finds to be highly unlikely, given the progression of things thus far), or he’s finally run out of witty one-liners and wise-ass remarks. Hunter doesn’t care what the reason is, so long as he stays silent and listens. “Or I promise you, on my own damn life, that I will tear you to pieces before you ever have the chance to realize that it’s coming. Got it?”

Hondo nods erratically before Hunter’s even finished speaking, suddenly eager to prove agreeable. “Oh yes! Yes, I-“

“Hunt’a!”

Omega’s inherently curious lilt behind him has Hunter loosening his hold on Hondo’s coat, and turning his chin over his shoulder to find her. The little girl hasn’t moved from where she settled just a few minutes ago, but she’s stood up to her full height (which isn’t saying all that much), with shoulders squared and her head tilted forward. She examines them both with big brown eyes, a knowing sort of gaze pointedly beyond her years - a force thing, he’s come to figure - painted across her features when she looks at Hunter directly. She stands with hands folded over her chest, in a curious sort of stance that tells him she’s been watching them for longer than just now, and waiting to get his attention.

She’s likely seen this whole… thing. With Hondo. And something akin to guilt gnaws at the back of his mind at that. He knows that she’s seen far worse, typically rather unfazed if not downright impressed by this sort of thing, but that is decidedly not a comfort. She’s a kid. And the glint of awe in her eyes is something worrisome.

He’ll address that later. Definitely.

He drops the Weequay back to his feet, ignoring the pirate’s annoyed grumbling behind him purely on the principle that he’s sure he’ll turn around and stab Hondo if he pays attention to whatever he has the audacity to complain about now.

One breath in, one breath out. Omega is watching, and Hunter has a responsibility to uphold as her father. She takes after him. Mimics him. He has an example to set. “Something wrong, kid?” he asks, calm and even, as if he hadn’t just been ripping into Hondo like prey.

Omega peers across at him for another moment before shaking her head. “No! But I think I found something!” she replies, with a grin that’s all teeth and waving erratically with both hands. “C’mere!”

The sergeant casts a glance over his shoulder and frowns. Hondo, - yet to regain his feigned apathy - blinks rapidly with large eyes, fumbling to fix his collar and perhaps appear more presentable again. Hunter breaths a strained sigh through closed teeth. Maybe it’s better for all of them if he takes a few steps further from the Weequay, just for a few minutes. Not really for Hondo’s sake, though Omega’s interruption has probably spared him his life, but for the sake of keeping more blood off of his own hands and setting said example for his kid. Maybe the space will give Hondo time to consider his next steps, though Hunter quickly dismisses the thought; that’s a stretch. Only a miracle will keep him contained.

But he’ll have to manage to handle himself for a few minutes. And if he can’t, well, it’ll be his funeral, whether literally or not (Hunter is beginning to prefer the idea of the former).

Taking long, purposeful strides towards Omega, stepping over crates they haven’t yet opened and forcing his breathing to even out fully, Hunter smiles at her despite the fact that he knows she can’t see it. He’s come to realize she can usually feel it in the force, as she can with their emotions, and if the softer smile fading into little dimples at the edges of her cheeks are any indication, it makes a difference now, too. “Show me whatcha got,” he says, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, voice light and very, very different than it had been a moment earlier.

Instead of presenting him with some other manner of mundane detritus like his may have expected her to, having seemed enraptured by the thing last he checked, she turns her chin over her shoulder, smile turned down into a serious expression. She glances quickly back at him, and points, rather harshly, in the direction of the wall behind her. “Right there,” she answers him simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the Galaxy.

He follows the line of her finger over the air with his eyes, and finds that if it is obvious, he’s suddenly gone blind.

“Ah- what am I lookin’ for, kid?” Hunter asks carefully, craning his neck forward ever so slightly.

Omega shuffles closer to the wall on the tips of her toes, beckoning for him to following with her other hand. “The wall,” she insists, a hint of urgency laced in her tone. “C’mere,” she insists again, tapping her finger lightly against the durasteel surface.

The faint sound of the edge of her nail on the wall is a whisper to his sensitive ears, but it’s there. And immediately, he realizes, it sounds… off. Like there’s something else underneath it. Or, more accurately, something that ISN’T underneath it. Without his heightened senses, he may not have noticed it; not over the muffling from his helmet and Hondo’s incessant fidgeting that he is otherwise trying his best to ignore for the sake of his already waning sanity. But the close proximity combined with all those years of intensive training means there is little he ever fails to pick up on, whether he’s listening for it or not.

Taught always to double-check, Hunter inches forward, laying a hand on Omega’s shoulder and leaning over her to give it a firm couple of taps of his own, just to be absolutely certain he heard it as it came. She watches him with the usual rapt attention and wide eyes, but says nothing, lips pressed together in a sign of impatient anticipation. Rapping his knuckles carefully against the surface, he both hears and feels the disturbance underneath his fist. With a little more force, it might have popped out of place as if on its own.

The panel in the wall sounds hollow.

He feels his face fall as if on its own. Of course the wall is hollow.

It reeks of ‘hidden compartment’. Whether that means a ventilation shaft closed off with time, a literal hole in the wall, or a genuine, bonafide passageway to Maker-knows-where, the only way to figure that out is by opening it up. But he’s both seen and crawled into more than enough alcoves carved out into walls just like these during the war to know what to expect. Not to mention that in a bunker like this, clearly built to hold long-term and under pressure for some dire purpose, - regardless of how it’s prior owner may have made use of it - its not unusual to find large vents fit for climbing or tunnels that lead ‘off the map’. Which also means that there must be an easy way to get inside that doesn’t mean ripping the durasteel sheet off the wall with brute force.

Wordlessly crouching in front of the wall, Hunter reaches down to run the balls of his fingers along the bend where the wall and the floor meet, deftly feeling across the surface for an access point. He expects a latch, or a small catch thin enough that the mild overhead lighting doesn’t give away its position to anyone with eyes less than Crosshair’s. It doesn’t take him any time at all to find it, either. A small, sharp edge presses into the gloved pad of his index finger, and he hooks it up around the little back lip with just as much ease. The panel responds in kind with a slight trembling, the bottom keening towards the inside of the wall. Yes, definitely hollow, and definitely a hatch that, by the looks of it, opens up inwards.

Pulling his hand back and falling on his heels, Hunter lets out a long, breathy sigh, all exasperation. Of course, Omega always seems to find something to get into.

“How did you… come across this, ad’ika?” he asks in a low voice, tilting his head up to glance at Omega hovering anxiously over him.

“I thought it looked funny, like the wall was broken, and then I leaned on it and it shook!” Omega replies hastily, almost dismissive. Then, far less so, “What is it?” she only-sort-of whispers excitedly, tugging at his arm. He’s taking too long to let her in on what it is he’s figured out for her liking, and if it weren’t for the underlying unease still nipping at his heels, he would have laughed at the endearingly impatient curiosity.

Pushing himself slowly back up to his feet and brushing his hands off on his knees, Hunter regards her amusedly. While he’s certain he won’t ever get tired of watching her explore the Galaxy around her with an equal interest in all things great and small (he’s sure he was never this curious), and he has a very hard time telling her ‘no’, he’s not exactly eager to go trudging through an old underground shaft right now. Not with this job at stake, and Hondo to worry about.

“Looks like a vent. Or a passage to another room,” he answers, watching her eyes double in size, twinkling with the all-too familiar look that indicates just how badly she would love to crawl through that door and see it for herself. “But-“ he quickly adds, laying a hand over her shoulder. “It’s best to leave it be. We don’t know where it goes. And we’ve got other things to worry about right now.” Her face falls in an instant, and the immediate guilt at her obvious disappointment vibrates in his chest.“Remember we’re staying on track, soldier. Got it?”

Omega stares up at him for a moment, and he knows that look in her eyes far too well. “But-“

“No.” he cuts her off, voice sharper than he means to be. Not like a father, denying his child, but a Sergeant, stressed and cracking under pressure. Omega’s eyes widen, startled, and the guilt settles in his gut like a burning acid. Anxiety, and desperation, and exhaustion nearly bubbling over. Again. No fault of hers. So much for struggling to turn to her down. Some nerve he’s got, that he might take it out on her-

“No,” Hunter says again, softer this time, almost forced, like he’s trying to make up for every time he’s ever snapped before, in spite of the fact that Omega doesn’t seem all too shaken aside from the initial shock (that the pair of them share, perhaps). “Sorry, kid. We have to be careful down here. There’s… no time for exploring. Not right now. We have a job to do-“

“And Hondo makes things harder,” she finishes, throwing him a wary smile. Like she understands. “I know.”

If it weren’t for his urgency, Hunter would melt.

What did he do to deserve her?

“Not to eh, butt in, my friends,” Hondo chimes in from behind, swaying towards them just as Hunter turns to meet him. Curbing his impatience, the Sergeant watches his almost drunken approach. “All of this, it is quite sweet! But, much like you, I do have business to attend to, yes? Surely you understand,” he grins cheek to cheek, gradually closing the gap between them with careless steps forward that Hunter feels against the floor underneath his own feet, heavy boots setting a steady pace. He waves his hands in front of his face. “Not that I want to rush you- that would be uncouth-“

Hunter sighs, pushing himself up some on the edges of his toes. “We haven’t finished combing this compartment yet. I want to stay on a fast track, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t thoro-“

“Of course, of course,” Hondo nods all too eagerly, and the lingering guilt in Hunter’s stomach is replaced with something else. Something uneasy, identifiable only in the way that the pirate speaks to them now, all suspiciously toothy smiles and wild gestures. “It is just that, well, I am beginning to… rethink our partnership, my clone companion.”

Instinctively, Hunter’s hand hovers over his blaster. Omega shifts behind him, leaning around his side.

“What exactly are you getting at.”

“It’s not that you have made bad company, not at all!” Hondo hastens to add, as if that settles any of the Sergeant’s growing apprehension, or answers his question. “No, no. In fact, you have helped me out a great deal! You have given me access to this facility, your, eh, associates have gotten the lights working again! My mother, she always taught me to be grateful, and I thank you.” His smile falters. “But this-“ he gestures in the space between them, only a short few feet no longer than his arm. “I do not think this will work, eh, long-term, so to speak. I cannot work when you are hovering over me.”

Omega’s little hands come up at his side, bow grasped between them in his peripheral. Silently, Hunter begs her to let him handle it, but he knows well enough by now that it’s a pointless idea. “You agreed to work with us! You can’t go back on it now!” Her heart beats a little faster, stronger, harder against his ears, to say nothing of his own bottled nervousness, like a pounding against the side of his skull.

“If only it were your call to make, child,” the pirate shakes his head, deceptively remorseful.

Biting back a growl, Hunter clenches his teeth firm enough for it to ache, ever so slightly. “Don’t fool yourself. YOU are the one without a choice! We made a deal. Don’t forget which one of us-“

“Is holding the blaster?” Hondo deadpans, eyes flickering over Hunter’s holster. “I admire the tenacity, soldier. Truly. You have seen a great deal during the war, of that I have no doubt. You clone troopers, you were brave men, and I am no fool. I would seldom cross you, that much is certain!”

There is a difference, Hunter had learned in time, between a man who stands behind his word, and a man who stands before it. He is not so foolish to believe that Hondo is the former, far from honest and all but trustworthy despite his outward sentiments in any attempt to appear otherwise. That said, he hardly believes the pirate to fall under the latter, either; all bark and no bite, as it were. He talks a big game, carries himself with large and elaborate foibles fit for an ill-mannered king, but he doesn’t carry a weapon, and whether or not he’s sober is still debatable.

Whether to call him brave or stupid, throwing himself around in the armed sergeant’s face with more confidence than Hunter would have given him credit for even now, is the question. A death wish, maybe, or a moment of misinformed audacity. All because Hunter left him alone for a few minutes to tend to his kid.

“I wouldn’t start now,” he says simply.

Hondo smiles. Everything about it is awkward. “Nor would I, my friend. I like you, and I like the girl. I have a, eh, soft spot for children, you know. But I have to make a profit to survive in this changing galaxy! You, I am afraid, are rather an… obstacle, than you are an asset.” His smile fades entirely, any trace of the creases on either side of his cracked lips, gone. “You are a mercenary yourself, no? I am sure you can understand.”

Hunter moves to draw his blaster, fingers light, eyes locked with Hondo’s behind his visor and-

Maybe it’s the way in which Hondo draws out every word, stalling for time. Or maybe it’s because of his inability, and unwillingness, to bury the need to listen, always, for the sound of Omega’s beating heart among all else, if only for his own reassurances. Regardless, the sergeant’s reaction time is something to be utterly ashamed of.

Hondo, evidently strapped for patience (however ironic the thought) throws himself forward with a horrible yell, barreling into Hunter before he’s able to pull his pistol. Rather than attempt to grapple with him, however, the pirate only shoves him away, throwing him entirely off balance while propelling himself in the opposite direction towards the door.

The unexpected lack of a physical struggle leaves him tilting backwards, and Hunter’s heels clip the floor. He stumbles aimlessly towards the wall, arms out as if to keep his body upright, but his attempt to use this momentum to recoup and double back comes all too late. Rather than keeling forward as he intends too, gravity works against him, and he slams down HARD, not into the durasteel wall at his rear, but Omega, standing still between him and the loose panel discovered in the framework.

At once, Omega squeals, frightened by the sheer force and immediacy of the impact; he’s nowhere near as big as Wrecker, but she’s still so terribly small, and Hunter, despite all of his categorically short stature for a clone trooper, is so much larger, so much heavier than Omega. And similarly unlike Hunter, she isn’t quite able to maintain her footing at the moment’s notice. She’s sent straight to the floor, the sound of her lean back slamming into the solid wall made worse by his keen senses.

But she doesn’t stop there.

Hunter gathers his weight just in time to watch her land right on top of the loose panel that had so vainly caught her attention only minutes ago, attached precariously to the inner wall. The weaker durasteel creaks underneath her sorry, slackened weight. It’s followed, none too kindly, by the telltale groaning of an enfeebled structure ready to collapse, and suddenly, his heart is clawing at the insides of his throat.

He’s vaguely aware of Hondo’s fast footsteps getting further and further away, but Hunter can’t be bothered to care anymore. Struck by the urgency of the situation, he lunges forward instead to grab at her arm before it gives way beneath her. “Omega-“

But the delirium left behind by the one-man ambush makes him slow.

Omega shrieks as the wall swallows her whole.