Chapter Text
OMEGA
Omega knows she has the best room in the entire house. While it is the smallest room, she prefers the term “cozy”. The ceiling is slanted so that she can only stand fully upright in half of it, but that just gives the room personality. The best part, the most amazing part, is the window. It is round with a bright pink, airy curtain that allows the sunlight to seep through. During the day, when she pushes it aside, she can see the ocean stretch to where it touches the sky in a nice, crisp line. When the sun sets, she can see it melt into the water, painting the sky and the sea with swatches of indescribable color. And when it is dark, the lights of the city sparkle like stars, winking up at her, reminding her that she and her brothers are not alone anymore. They have friends, people, community. The citizens of Pabu treat them like natborns. They aren’t clone soldiers here. They are the family that lives in the little house near the very top of the island.
And Omega loves it, and she knows her brothers do too…even if they don’t say it in words. She sees it in their actions, their smiles, their eyes. Clones were bred to survive, not live. But here they are, her brave brothers, living. She is so happy for them. For all of them.
Tonight, Omega fell asleep on the Marauder only an hour before they arrived back in Pabu after a supply run. She wakes a little when she feels the landing mechanisms activate, the pitched whine of the ship making a gentle descent on the landing pad. She scrunches her eyes shut, knowing that if she’s asleep, one of her brothers will carry her home.
Home. She loves that word.
“Omega?” Hunter’s voice, then his footsteps approach the seat Omega is curled in. Her brother chuckles, and Omega knows that Hunter knows she’s awake, but she keeps her eyes closed and tries to hide her smile in her arms.
“Just leave her,” Crosshair says. “If she wakes up with a crick in her neck, it's her own fault.”
Omega knows he doesn’t mean it.
“Tempting,” Hunter agrees softly, amusement evident.
“Then again,” Crosshair continues with a sigh, “hearing her whine about it tomorrow would make all of us suffer.”
Arms scoop her up and cradle her against the hard plastoid of a chestplate. The Batch doesn’t wear much of their armor anymore, but when they do, it’s under loose-fitting civvies to keep it hidden. Omega’s cheek rests against the coarse woolen material of Crosshair’s favorite sweater. Wrecker jokes that Crosshair likes the abrasive fabric because it matches his personality, but Omega knows it is because Crosshair likes the color: black with accents of red woven throughout.
Omega peeks up at her waspish brother’s face. He catches her. “If I find out you’re awake, you’re walking,” Crosshair murmurs. Omega snaps her eyes shut. “That’s what I thought.”
She must’ve fallen back asleep, because the next thing Omega is aware of is being deposited into her bed, Crosshair dropping her on the mattress with a soft thump. “Get ready for bed, you little womp rat.”
“I’m already asleep,” Omega whines, stretching out her arms. She accidentally knocks Lula off the bed.
Crosshair picks up the stuffed tooka and tosses it at Omega’s face. “Teeth brushed. Night clothes on,” he orders, pointing at her. “Then sleep.”
“Ugh!” Omega laments, but she rolls out of her bed with reluctant obedience.
Crosshair grins triumphantly around a toothpick before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
Omega quickly changes into night clothes and then goes to the fresher to brush her teeth. She can hear her brothers talking in the common room, and the bitter scent of caff being brewed. Omega doesn’t know how they can stand the stuff. She tries it, but usually only with a healthy splash of cream and a heaping spoon of sugar. Even then, her brother’s laugh at the array of facial expressions she goes through as she sips at it with early meal.
Breakfast, Omega reminds herself, It’s called breakfast.
Once Omega has scrubbed her teeth clean, she bounds down the stairs with renewed energy. Her second wind, as Hunter calls it, disperses any tiredness she felt before.
“I thought you were already asleep,” Crosshair grumbles over his mug.
“I was until you made me change and brush my teeth,” Omega shoots back, climbing up on the couch between Hunter and Wrecker. There isn’t really enough room, but she makes herself fit, snugly squished between them. Wrecker laughs and moves his arm to the couch back to make more space.
“Forgive me for being responsible,” Crosshair says, rolling his eyes.
“Wanna taste of my caf?” Wrecker booms, “No cream or sugar, just like you like it.”
Omega scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue. “Blech! Gross. I like Tech’s caff better.”
“Tech’s caff is ninety-five percent sugar,” Hunter says, hiding a smile behind his mug.
“Now wait a minute,” Tech starts indignantly.
“That’s why little girls like it,” Crosshair chortles gleefully.
Omega soaks in the lighthearted teasing, the warm feeling of safety and stability she hadn’t ever realized was missing until it was gifted to them on Pabu. It had been stolen for a moment when she was kidnapped by Hemlock, when she thought Tech was dead, and Crosshair imprisoned…but now, they have it back. And she never wants to let it go again.
Hunter nudges her, and Omega opens her eyes. She can’t remember when she closed them. “Off to bed, little one,” he says gently.
She nods, and wiggles her way off the couch. “G’night,” she mutters sleepily, waving vaguely, to no one in particular. A chorus of answering goodnights follow her up the staircase. Omega creeps into her little room and climbs into bed. She pushes aside her curtain to look out at the winking village lights. She gasps.
Amongst the usual street lamps and lit windows are thousands of colorful pinpricks of light, strung along the streets and around posts and rooftops. They look like luminous manifestations of pure joy, dazzling sparkles of happiness glittering across the place she didn’t think she could possibly love more.
“Hunter!” she calls, the first name she thinks of.
Omega has her nose pressed against the window pane Hunter comes in. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks. Maybe Omega had sounded a little frantic when she called for him in her excitement.
“Look! It’s beautiful!” Omega pulls away from the window enough for Hunter to lean over the bed and look out for himself. “What are those lights? What do they mean?”
Hunter smiles. “I forgot you didn’t see the lights when we were coming down from the ship. Tech said they’re decorative lights for the holidays.”
“What kind of holidays?” Omega asks.
“I’m not sure…we can ask tomorrow.” Hunter pulls back Omega’s quilt and pats her pillow. Omega looks out the window one more time before laying down and letting Hunter tuck the quilt around her shoulders. He smooths back her hair. “Don’t let that busy mind of yours keep you up,” he warns with a smile. “We’ll solve the mystery in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Omega sighs.
Hunter clicks off her lamp, whispering one last goodnight over his shoulder as he leaves the room.
Omega’s busy mind keeps her awake a few minutes more, noticing that the colorful lights cast a faint rainbow glow on the slanted ceiling. “Holidays,” Omega breathes dreamily, “I’ve never celebrated holidays before…” The lull of sleep claims her with wistful dreams.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
“They’re called Merry Days,” Lyana tells Omega the next morning. “It’s a whole month to honor all the most important holidays from all the cultures represented on Pabu.”
Omega breathes. “A whole month? What do you do for a whole month?”
“All sorts of things! We decorate and eat special food and play games. There are shows and parades, and remembrances. And on the middle day of the month, families exchange gifts with one another. We call that day Merriest Day, because the gift of family is the merriest of all.”
“I’ve never gotten anyone a gift before,” Omega says quietly.
Lyana lights up. “I can help you get gifts for your brothers! We could make them gifts, or even earn some credits to buy gifts from the market.”
“You would really help me do that?” Omega asks, hope swelling in her heart.
“Of course! You’re my friend. That’s what friends do,” Lyana says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the galaxy.
Omega smiles. “When can we start?”
“Right now, obviously.” Lyana laughs. “C’mon!”
Omega chases her friend out the door and into the sunshine of their island home.
TECH
“There’s going to be a parade of lights tonight,” Omega chatters excitedly, accepting the stack of plates from Tech to set around the table. “And the whole island is going to be there.”
Tech hums thoughtfully at the information. “It would be interesting to study the local traditions,” he says, giving Omega a handful of utensils when she bounds back to his side. He turns to the cuts of meat he is cooking on the stovetop.
“We wouldn’t be going to study, Tech,” Omega sighs. “We’d be going because it’s our tradition too! We are citizens of Pabu now, so we should celebrate with them!”
Tech goes still, Omega’s words, so assured, registering in his mind. “Well, I suppose…”
“Lyana asked what traditions clones have to add to Merry Days, and I told her I wasn’t sure, but that I’d ask you, since you know practically everything,” Omega continues fondly, going to the cupboard to collect cups.
“Traditions clones have,” Tech echoes, unsure he understands.
“Yeah,” Omega says, “You know…like other cultures have traditions and holidays. Lyana said they’re always adding new traditions to the month to incorporate all the cultures represented.”
“I’m not sure you would call our history a culture,” Tech counters gently. “Our…kind has only been in existence for an extraordinary short time. And as for traditions worthy of being called a holiday, I’m not sure that there are any by natborn standards.”
He turns to look at his sister in time to see her joyous expression crumble. She isn’t looking at him, but at the cup in her hand, half extended to its place at the table. “Oh,” she whispers. “That makes sense.” She sets the cup down with a soft clunk.
Tech’s voice catches in his throat as he searches for something remotely comforting to say, but his typically brilliant mind comes up short.
Omega looks up at him with a small, brave smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s okay. We can start new traditions. Our own traditions.” She nods, more to herself than to Tech. “I’ll go tell the others it’s almost time for late meal…I mean, dinner.” She rushes from the room, but there is no longer any bounce in her steps.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Omega’s mood improves considerably during late meal. Wrecker hounds her for information about the parade, as if she has any personal experience with it, and she gives him every minute detail she gleaned from Lyana. Even Hunter and Crosshair have a part to play in her lifted spirits, bickering lightly about where the best place to view the parade might be. Omega ultimately sides with Crosshair, to the sniper’s delight, the emotion only displayed in a triumphant smirk at Hunter and a gentle tug on a lock of Omega’s hair.
Once the meal is completed, Hunter sends Omega to make preparations for the evening activity while he offers to assist Tech cleaning up.
“It is not your turn,” Tech argues, unwilling to admit that he had hoped to take advantage of the opportunity to think uninterrupted.
Hunter shrugs, stacking plates and utensils. “I don’t mind.”
Tech minds, but he only nods and mutters a word of thanks.
“You’ve been quiet this evening,” Hunter says after a few minutes of silence between them, the only sound being the clatter of dishes and disturbance of water.
“I’ve been thinking,” Tech admits, handing Hunter a scrubbed dish to dry.
Hunter chuckles. “You usually think out loud.” This earns Hunter an eyeroll, which makes the former sergeant laugh outright and knock his shoulder into Tech’s. “Something’s bothering you.”
“Omega asked me about our culture, what we might contribute to the festivities of Pabu,” Tech says, taking another dirty plate to scrub at.
“Echo’s talked about some traditions the regs had,” Hunter says, the lightness of his tone vanished. “Maybe he’d have some ideas.”
“But we never participated in them,” Tech says, “and aside from that, it is troubling that Omega doesn’t have a history beyond the laboratories of Kamino. No clone does.”
“All histories and cultures have to start somewhere,” Hunter says.
This makes Tech pause. “This is true.”
“I suppose we have an opportunity to make our own culture, our own legacy,” Hunter continues. “Something for Omega to carry with her.”
After we’re gone remains unsaid.
“Omega said something similar,” Tech admits.
Hunter takes the stack of dried plates to put in the cupboard. “We can still ask Echo for ideas. I’m sure he would love to have input.”
“And Rex as well,” Tech adds, feeling lighter now that he has shared the burden. “I will contact them tonight. Hopefully we will have something to offer Omega as suggestions in the morning.”
Hunter shakes his head and smiles. “Tech, we don’t have our entire legacy figured out in one night.”
“But that would be ideal.”
CROSSHAIR
As soldiers, they have seen many celebrations on many worlds, but always in the capacity of disinterested observers. Watching for threats and protecting citizens made the distraction of festivities bothersome rather than engaging.
Now, Crosshair sees it all from a new perspective.
Omega is perched on Wrecker’s shoulders, high above the crowd. Crosshair doesn’t like the press of the horde on the streets, almost wishing he could find his own perch to observe the chaotic festivities from; however, his desire for open space does not win out over his yearning to be close to his little sister and brothers. So, instead, he situates himself between Wrecker’s bulk and Hunter’s solid presence. It also puts him within Omega’s reach, resulting in her tapping him on the head to draw his attention to anything and everything that catches her attention.
He pretends to be bothered, but Omega only giggles, seeing through his act as if it were a wide open window.
“Look, Crosshair!” she cries, a pat of little fingers in his hair. “Isn’t it cute!”
“We’re watching the same parade,” he tells her. “I see everything you see.”
“But are you looking at the little moonyo in the tree?”
“I saw it before you did.”
Omega huffs. “You did not.”
Crosshair smirks.
When the parade finally ends, Omega slides down from Wrecker’s shoulders and latches herself to Crosshair’s hand for the walk back home, even after he tells her she’ll have to keep up with his pace if she wants to stay there.
“That’s why I’m walking with you,” Omega tells him. “Hunter and Tech walk too slow.”
“That’s because it isn’t a race,” Tech says.
“You only say that because you wouldn’t win,” Crosshair replies.
“Yeah!” Wrecker declares. “I could beat all of you!”
Omega drops Crosshair’s hand. “Last one home has to do dishes for a week!” She takes off, followed quickly by a whooping Wrecker.
Crosshair exchanges a look with Tech and Hunter before he says, “Well, I’m not doing dishes for a week.”
“You don’t seriously mean…” Tech starts, but Crosshair is already gone, civilian boots pounding into the cobblestone streets.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
“I don’t think it’s fair that Hunter chose to participate in the race only after we had nearly reached the house,” Tech is still grousing when Crosshair returns to the common area from tucking Omega in for the night.
“You’re just upset you didn’t think of it first,” Hunter says smugly, taking a slow drink of his caf.
Tech continues to grumble from behind his data pad.
Crosshair goes to pour himself a cup of caf, adding just a touch of cream and sweetener. He would be loath to admit he used either, trying to keep the beverage deceptively dark. When he returns to the common room, he finds that the conversation has shifted from their evening race.
“Echo has already responded to my message,” Tech is saying to Hunter.
Wrecker poses the question before Crosshair can. “What message?”
“About clone traditions,” Tech says absently, still reading over the message in question.
“Clone traditions,” Crosshair mutters. “You mean, reg traditions.”
“It isn’t like we have any ourselves,” Tech says.
“Sure we do!” Wrecker cries. “We have traditions.”
“Such as?” Tech asks skeptically.
“Well, after a successful mission, Omega and I would get Mantell Mix,” Wrecker begins happily, but then he freezes, glancing at Crosshair.
In fact, Crosshair can feel three sets of eyes on him. He decidedly does not meet their gaze, focusing on the caf in his cup. This post mission Mantel Mix tradition was one established during his separation from the squad, when they ran jobs for the trandoshan that would later betray them to the Empire. They must’ve called them missions, their little mercenary gigs. While he knows their lives didn’t stop while he was gone, it doesn’t make the ache any less sharp.
Crosshair takes a drink of his caf, even though it is still too hot. “Well,” he says, “sounds like you’ve got a tradition right there.”
“Omega did mention that food does play a role in the month’s festivities,” Tech acknowledges, taking Crosshair’s words as permission to step away from the awkwardness of the conversation. “Perhaps we could borrow the concept of Mantell Mix and make our own rendition.”
Hunter makes a face. “Mantell Mix wasn’t even good.”
“Take that back!” cries Wrecker.
“Hunter has a point,” Tech says, ignoring Wrecker’s indignant gasp, “It was…subpar at best.”
“And that’s coming from the man who drinks caf with his milk and sugar,” Crosshair puts in helpfully, earning a guffaw from Wrecker.
Hunter interjects, bringing the derailed conversation back on course. “What did Echo have to say?”
“He mentioned name days, the day a clone received or chose their name. They would celebrate the day annually. Its natborn equivalent would probably be a birthday.”
“How are we supposed to remember when we chose our names?” Crosshair asks, rolling his eyes.
“I actually kept a record,” Tech admits. “I thought it was important.”
“Of course you did.”
Tech sighs. “I am adding it to the list of traditions we show to Omega in the morning. That gives us a grand total of two traditions we might contribute to Merry Days.”
“A nasty snack and the day a clone decides they don’t want to go by a CT number anymore?” Crosshair grumbles. “Do you think they’d give us a parade for those?”
Hunter frowns at him. “We are open to suggestions, Cross.”
Crosshair argues, “Why do we need to contribute any traditions? Can’t our tradition be that we adopt whatever traditions we want? Seems the month is full of them without us adding our petty creations.”
“Omega would be disappointed,” Tech says after a moment.
Crosshair sighs. “The truth is disappointing sometimes. And the truth here is, we’re clones. We were experiments and soldiers most of our lives…which wasn’t living. It was surviving.”
“But we still have our memories and experiences that have made us individuals, no matter what the Kaminoans hoped to achieve. We are more than just survivors,” Tech says.
“We have our history that made us,” Hunter says, softly, into his mug, “and now we have our history ahead of us. To do more than just survive.”
Tech chuckles. “I guess you were right afterall, Hunter. A legacy cannot be built in a night.”
“But it can be built in our lifetimes,” Hunter says.
TBC