Chapter Text
You hadn’t been sleeping well.
For the past few months, nightmares plagued you. You weren’t a screamer. You’d just wake up, breaths heavy, palms clammy, mind twisting and turning.
The dreams varied in length and plot, but they always surrounded the same topic: him.
You hadn’t expected to fall for Crosshair. The universe brought the two of you together time and time again, and it progressed from there. His dedication and intensity elevated yours, and your openness and empathy warmed him.
Despite what you were going through at the current moment, you don’t regret the relationship the two of you had. The time spent together was brief, but it grew into something special, something extraordinary. When the clone wars began to draw to a close, you moved in with the Bad Batch, knowing Coruscant was no longer safe. You found true happiness there, living with him and his brothers.
You adore this family. In tough times, Hunter’s loyalty, Wrecker’s gentle nature, Tech’s clever charm, Echo’s insightful determination, and lately, Omega and the joy she brings to all of you has been what keeps you going.
It’s not the same anymore, with Crosshair gone. The boys are handling it, given, some of them are handling it poorly, but they’re trying. You, on the other hand, aren’t doing so hot.
You move through the motions. Days are filled with cups of caf, refueling, charting missions, and cooking meals. You love the boys and Omega, but next to what you had with Crosshair, it’s dull and colorless.
Time won’t fly. You keep pushing. There’s only so many people that you love who remain in this universe, and you’ll be damned if you’re losing another one of them.
After finishing her meal, Omega asks you for some practice in identifying the local plants. You smile, and head outside with her. She digs at the soil at the edge of the forest, and you help her slice taproots.
Wrecker jogs over, enthusiastic to participate. Hunter follows you out, not missing the opportunity to help his little sister wield a knife. Echo keeps a watchful eye, leaning against the edge of the ship. Tech leans back in one of the red chairs in the cockpit, his head visible through the door frame, unable to resist eavesdropping on the lesson. You smile, surrounded by your chosen family.
Too soon, it’s time to rest. The other batchers slide into their respective bunks, and you walk to yours, the one you used to share.
Shuffling into the dark room, you approach the crate that holds your clothes. You whack your toe.
You let out a few curses and turn in the lights. It’s his weapons kit, right where he had left it because you couldn’t bring yourself to move it.
You sigh.
Tech pops his head in the door. “I heard your cry of distress. Are you alright?”
“Yes. I stubbed my toe on this rifle case,” you tell him.
You pause, hands twisting.
Tech exhales, and drops his hands to his side. “I’m going to take that out of your way,” he says.
You offer a small smile. You’re grateful it’s Tech doing this, who was closest to Crosshair out of the brothers, and consequently shares the heaviest burden of the loss.
You didn’t have the courage to clear out Crosshair’s stuff, but you know it’s a good idea. It’ll help you heal.
It’s the little things like these that keep you going.
Tech turns the light off as he exits. You close your eyes, drifting to another night of fitful sleep.
—————————
Tech knocks on your door the following afternoon, and you let him in. His fingers are tangled together, and his eyes dart to meet yours.
“I found something in Crosshair’s weapons kit. I believe it was intended for you, as he had mentioned the creation of this item soon after you joined us.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What is it, Tech?”
He opens one of the pockets on his belt and pulls out a small piece of metal. He pushes off the doorframe to lean down to hand it to you.
You turn it over in your hands, studying the way the light shines across it. It’s a small circular plate of metal, about the diameter of the top joint of your thumb. It’s got two holes on either side.
Stamped in the center is a crosshair insignia, identical to the one over his eye.
“This is beskar alloy,” Tech informs you. “I do not know where he found it. He approached me to request my assistance in creating a small chain,” he adjusts his goggles.
Tech reaches into another pocket and pulls out a chain. You hand him the signet, and he expertly attaches it.
He hands it back to you, and his eyes are gentle. “I hope this can bring you a sense of comfort or peace. I’m aware that we’ve reviewed the nature of inhibitor chips several times, however, your distress continues,” he tilts his head.
He swallows. “It is my hope that by giving you this gift he had intended for you, reassurance and closure may be possible.”
Tears are threatening to spill over. You pull the necklace over your head, and it resets low across your chest.
“Thank you, Tech. I’ve appreciated your being here for me these past months.”
Tech’s jaw clenches, and he nods. You know this type of emotional conversation isn’t his strong suit. Tech backs out of the room, closing the door.
You lay back down, feeling the cold metal heat up to the temperature of your body. Tech was right. You do feel a little bit better. What you had with Crosshair had been real, something rare and valuable.
You remember that fateful day, when everything changed. The second he returned to the ship, you knew something was wrong. His posture was too stiff, and he told you his skull ached. You had brushed off his sour mood— after all, it’s Crosshair you’re talking about— but hindsight is twenty-twenty, and you wonder what other signs you may have missed.
He had hesitated, that day.
He’d hesitated to leave the ship with the rest of the batch to debrief. He’d hesitated when he’d taken your hands in his, locking you in the intensity of his eyes. He’d hesitated as you stared back, finally dropping his guard as you’d let warmth spill into your expression. He’d hesitated before he leaned his forehead into yours, and he’d hesitated before walking down the ramp.
He hesitated in the hangar, when he raised his rifle on his brothers. He’d hesitated before he shot Wrecker.
When you appeared in the doorway of the Marauder during the fight, you watched his face go slack. Caught in one final stare, he never raised his weapon against you, hesitation overruling orders.
Hesitation gave you hope.
You release the signet from your grasp, letting it fall back to your chest, under your shirt.
“Thank you, Crosshair,” you murmur aloud.
When the evening comes, you sleep through the night.
—————————
It’s another mission for Cid. The Bad Batch is escaping from a run down city into the forest. Tech and Echo had been able to download the necessary data, but not without setting off the imperial forces. They’re in hot pursuit.
“Watch out, they didn’t catch us on our way back but they’re prepared for you!” Hunter calls through the comms.
Great. You squeeze Omega’s hand a little harder. Almost back to the ship.
The ship is in sight. You turn, joining Hunter and Echo in providing cover fire while the others board the ship. You’re a halfway decent shot thanks to all those shooting lessons, so you get on last.
It happens the second you’re in the open, left foot on the ramp. A red bolt soars under your outstretched arms and strikes you dead in the center of your chest.
You’re thrown backwards, landing hard on the ramp.
Kriff, what just happened? How are you alive?
The Marauder pulls up and away, and that’s when you see him hidden in the trees.
The armor and rifle are new, but that stance is unique.
The perfect chest shot is undeniable proof.
The wind is whipping the wisps of hair around your face, but you will not let yourself be distracted. His head turns to follow the Marauder flying away, you barely catch the reflection off his visor, and you know his eyes are locking on you in that all-too familiar way.
Tears are streaming down your face. There’s a throbbing pain on your chest where the shot hit.
You reach down, expecting to find bright red soaking down your shirt.
Instead, you see the small crosshair signet. The force of the bolt had shoved it into your skin, leaving a trail of blood around the edges. This was going to be one hell of a bruise.
But you’re alive.
You’re pulled into the ship, and the hatch seals. Elevation picks up, and you know you should stabilize yourself for the upcoming jump to hyperspace, but you can’t move.
You sit on the floor, frozen in shock.
Soon, Tech is in medic mode. Placing you on the cot in the corner, he’s digging out gauze and bacta while Hunter comforts a sobbing Omega.
Wrecker and Echo are in the cockpit, shooting the tie fighters, their raised voices overwhelming your fragile senses.
Tech’s shock at your wound is evident on his face, but he dampens his reaction so as not to alert the others.
After carefully extracting the necklace from where it had become embedded into your skin, he placed a bacta patch over it.
You stumble to your bunk, closing the door behind you. The others won’t bother you.
You yank the necklace over your head, staring at the tiny design.
Of three things you were absolutely certain:
1.) You just saw Crosshair.
2.) He fired on you, making a perfect kill shot.
3.) The gift he never got the chance to give you saved your life.
The dark bruise spreading across your sternum is nothing compared to the pain in your heart. Whatever healing progress you’d been making is stripped away, and the agony rips you raw and ragged.
Whatever scrap of hope you’d been clinging to deep down died when he didn’t hesitate to try to kill you. The man you loved is truly gone.
—————————
CT-9904 sits on the bunk in the imperial shuttle, door closed, lights off.
The comm on his wrist flashes, an order to report to the brig for the debrief. His body moves, the will of the inhibitor chip forcing him to obey, despite his wish to stay.
Crosshair wants to be alone right now.
It’s not worth fighting the chip on this one, though.
When all this first started, he tried to fight back. His intensity and mental willpower allowed him to slightly resist the iron will of the chip’s voice, and he was able to hesitate the actions.
But then he was split from his batch, and from her. He was brought to the medical center, where the Kaminoans reconditioned him.
After that, he realized there was no success in fighting the chip. His body belonged to the device, which incessantly whispered to him that good soldiers follow orders, traitors of the Empire need to be exterminated, and the need to obey.
CT-9904 was forced to carry out missions for Admiral Rampart. At first they were regular missions— retrieve some object, capture some politician, or protect some cargo.
Except his brothers weren’t there at his back. Working with a much smaller, significantly less skilled team was dangerous, and he didn’t return unscathed.
As the weeks passed by, Admiral Rampart’s missions became atrocious. CT-9904 was forced to commit terrible acts of violence against innocents, and Crosshair fought the chip, but it wasn’t enough.
His eyes, his aim, his ambition— what he once considered his greatest qualities— were stolen from him and turned into a deadly weapon. His sanity was weak, devastated by the terrible acts his body was forced to carry out, enslaved to the will of the inhibitor chip.
The remains of Crosshair had desperately hoped this day would never come. That he would never be used against his brothers, as he had that night in the hangar where he shot Wrecker’s chest plate.
Admiral Rampart kept him out of the shootout until the very end. Perched in a tree, he was commanded to fire when the Bad Batch arrived back to their ship.
No, I can’t! Not my brothers , Crosshair pleaded, horror surging through his thoughts, but the chip didn’t waiver.
His rifle raised, as he heard crashing through the trees. He didn’t see his brothers dart onto the ship, they must have already made it on, stealth allowing them to escape his attention.
The underbrush parted. The chip used his vision to scan the two figures running into the clearing.
Crosshair instantly recognized her through CT-9904’s flawless eyes. She had a smear of dirt across her face, and though her hair was pulled back away from her face, strays curled against the sweat of her forehead.
The chip raised the rifle, and moved a finger onto the trigger.
Good soldiers follow orders.
Blind panic exploded in Crosshair. He screamed at the chip, NO! NOT HER—
The finger pulled the trigger without hesitation. CT-9904 did what he did best, and the shot glided directly to where her heart sat in her torso. A satisfied hum radiates throughout him, the chip pleased with the elimination of the traitor.
NO!
He killed her.
NO!
CT-9904 cannot look away, the will of the device in his brain forcing his eyes to confirm the kill.
The girl pushes herself up on her elbows, obviously hurting. But there’s no blood, and her eyes scan the treeline.
Crosshair knows when she finds him and sees her immediate recognition of him. Her face switches from a display of pain to utter devastation.
Her eyes had been widened by the shock of the bolt, but now they shift, pupils blowing open and eyebrows twisting. Her mouth wrenches into a soft cry, anguish evident as it plays across her face.
A boot steps onto the open ramp. Tech. An arm loops through hers, pulling her backwards to the belly of the ship as it soars away.
How did she live? The shot did not miss.
The chip snarls, enraged by the girl’s survival.
The fury of the failure is taken out on the last shreds that remain of Crosshair, and the swell of voices about the betrayal and evil schemes of Clone Force 99 overwhelm him. He crumbles and retreats.
—————————
It’s late in the evening when CT-9904 returns to the bunks.
When CT-9904 rests, the inhibitor chip quiets down. Crosshair’s dreams are free from the poisonous influence.
The vision is colored by his panic from the afternoon. Dream-Crosshair pulls the trigger, the shot slams into her chest, but this time, she doesn’t get up. Red stains spread across her shirt, and her limp body is pulled into the ship, taken away from him like everything else has been.
The dream replays. This time, his dream-self cheers in success as she draws her final breath through his scope.
No, no, he can’t become this. He doesn’t want to be a monster, he wants to be a soldier, a brother, a partner, a lover. He’s terrified of falling to the chip’s cruelty, losing the last shred he has left of himself.
His dream morphs. The illusion of her is laying in bed with him, wearing his too-big shirt, just like she used to. The image is fuzzy and shimmers at the edge, but he can feel her warmth against his side. She props up on her elbow, cheek laid on his chest as her eyes meet his, soft and tender. The image wiggles as if distorted by heat waves, and her fingers reach up to brush across his temple. Her gentle smile exudes acceptance, and his tense shoulders soften. Dream-Crosshair reaches out to her, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her closer, her weight settling on him.
The mirage snaps. He rolls over and reaches for her, his long fingers meeting empty space and cold sheets.
No. It felt so real. He could feel her, she was here, he swears it.
He cracks open his kriffing eyes.
There’s nothing.
He closes his eyes, but it’s too late. The chip is rearing its ugly head, and the noise is boiling up.
He hesitates, evaluating his situation. He has lost hope of controlling of his body. All he has left is the fragile presence of his mind, which threatens to fracture the longer he futilely fights the chip.
One fact comes to mind, and Crosshair allows himself to shut down.
She’s far away, safe on the other side of the galaxy, where he can’t kill her.