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Pabu is… nice. Really nice. Like Tipoca City, it’s surrounded by the ocean, but that’s about where the similarities end. Pabu is warm and bright and safe, the people here are kind, and the food is great and plentiful. Crosshair knew as much, because Omega told him about it. She told him about the sea surge too, how it happened the same day they first arrived, and how it destroyed pretty much everything below the wall. Crosshair can see the signs of it, still, though the people here have been busy in the time since, cleaning up and rebuilding.
All together, Pabu feels like a dream, and most days, the only thing reminding Crosshair that it isn’t is that their little squad, despite having grown in numbers, is forever incomplete.
Crosshair sees the ease with which his brothers—his siblings settle back in. It’s not that they don’t miss Tech, Crosshair knows they do, and they show it, too, it’s just that they… Well, he’s not sure. Maybe it’s that they’ve had more time to process, while the reality of it is still new to Crosshair, even though he’s known about it for months. Maybe they have more practice, letting people go. Maybe it’s just that they’ve been here before.
Whatever the case, they’re settling in, integrating, becoming part of the community. They help out with the still on-going reconstruction of Lower Pabu; with watching the kids; with work on the docks, loading and unloading the boats. Wrecker has either discovered or developed an apparent talent for fishing and takes great pleasure in showing off his catch, especially the ones no one else can even lift. Hunter is the one people come to now when animals go missing, whether they’re pets or livestock. A kid too, once. Omega made fast friends with the mayor’s daughter the first time around; now she seems to at least be friendly with every single kid on the island; possibly most of the adults too. Crosshair’s not really surprised. He was surprised to learn that Hunter managed to find and adopt another three Clone kids since ‘losing’ Omega, though he supposes he shouldn’t have been. Hunter’s apparently just like that, Crosshair only didn’t know because they’ve never been around all that many kids before. Not since they were cadets themselves, anyway.
Crosshair helps out too, with the construction work. The mayor said he didn’t have to, that there were plenty of hands around to provide for him too while he recovered from his ‘ordeal’, but while he’s very patient by design, doing nothing at all is boring. Crosshair’s a soldier too, or he was, and he’s been stuck in a small room doing nothing for too long to be comfortable just hanging around in the Marauder all day while everyone else is off doing—all that they’re doing. He’s not as active as they all are, though, still needs to rebuild his strength after all that time of barely moving. And as it turns out, he’s of more use in the early and late stages of housebuilding than the middle part – planning, and putting on the finishing touches, more so than the actual construction. It’s nice enough work, he supposes, and no one comments when he has to put the tools down for a moment, or switch tasks to something where his shaking hand is less of a problem.
When he needs a break from all the people, friendly and understanding as they are, he takes Batcher for walks along the shore. He accidentally became some kid’s hero for a week when he found a stuffie lost during the sea surge on one of those walks. He mostly brought it back out of habit, for Wrecker, but the kid spotted it in his hand on the way back, so he gave it back to them instead. Their parent gave him a couple rolls of some kind of sweet bread as thanks, so that sort of made up for all the attention it got him.
On days when he aches too much to deal with people or walk Batcher, and the Marauder is too full of memories to leave space for him, he finds somewhere high and quiet to just… sit. Watch. Not for anything in particular, just the waves or the sky or the animals or the people working far below him. Usually, he can avoid company for hours like that (talking company, anyway – Batcher seems to like sitting with him), but a few times, that pirate-lady – Phee – has found him. They might be friends of sorts now. She’ll fins him, and sit with him; sometimes she talks, sometimes not. She misses Tech too, he can tell, despite not knowing him for nearly as long as the rest of them did. It’s strangely comforting, though it doesn’t take the pain away.
Crosshair has heard people saying that losing someone close to you is like losing a limb. He’d written it off as nat-born or civilian nonsense, mostly, but he gets it now. Missing Tech is like missing a part of himself; like looking in the mirror and seeing nothing where there should be something. It hurts in a way that doesn’t make sense, because there’s nothing there, nothing to hurt, but somehow that’s even worse.
He missed Tech before, too, of course, missed all of them, at least once the chip let him think about them at all as anything other than traitors to the Empire. Even before that, he thinks. A pain so deep and repressed that he barely knew he was feeling it; couldn’t have told anyone what it actually was, beyond fuel for his anger. But it was different, because at least then they were still out there; the distance between them one that could be closed, if only in theory.
This one can’t, and so Crosshair just sits with it and watches, and draws houses, and walks the shore, and installs doors and flowerpots and awnings, and spends time with the family he has still, again. Tries to live a life. Tries to imagine never having to pick up a weapon again. Wonders at the possibility of a home that doesn’t fly, even sketches several different ideas for it, but doesn’t show them to anyone, because they all end up having space for someone who won’t get to use it.
He heals, slowly.
It’s late one evening when the ship arrives.
Shep hosted a dinner for them – “A feast!” Phee insists – to celebrate that Echo is there for a few rotations, just to see them all and recuperate between missions. And just because Shep seems to take any excuse at all to gather people for food and general merry-making. Crosshair can’t say he minds, even if it is a little much with so many people around the same table. Well, actually, they had to push two tables together to fit all of them, but—semantics. It’s loud, and relaxed, and happy.
The sun’s set, now, and the food is mostly gone – even Wrecker having eaten his fill. Crosshair is half contemplating calling it a night; can see Hunter considering the same, but the kids are having fun, still, and he’s comfortable, warm, and full. Everything hurts a little less when he can sit back and watch their not-so-little family be safe and relaxed.
Crosshair’s the first to notice the ship; new lights showing up among the stars he’s idly watching. Hunter is close behind him, though, sensing the ship’s approach around the same time Crosshair realizes it’s headed towards them.
“We expecting any new arrivals?” Hunter asks, rising from his chair; his demeanor switching from relaxed to alert with a speed that shows he’s still as much of a soldier as he’s always been. They all are. It’s probably not something they can ever stop being, even if they don’t act like it all the time anymore.
“Not that I am aware of,” Shep answers, concerned by the sudden change to the atmosphere – understandably so, as the last time he saw a reaction like that from Hunter, more than half the houses on the island were destroyed before the night was over.
If Shep doesn’t know of any expected arrivals, then no one does.
“Batch,” Hunter calls, setting off towards the top of the island – the only viable landing zone for a ship that size. “Let’s go.” Most of their gear is stowed in the Marauder; Crosshair doubts they’ll be able to get it before the newcomers land. They’re not unarmed, though – Hunter’s got a knife or three; Crosshair, Echo, and Phee all have their sidearms; Omega has her bow from practicing with it earlier. Wrecker might have a knife too, but hardly needs a weapon if it comes to close combat, and the cadets are all used to fighting with whatever’s in reach. And of course, Batcher is there. Whatever’s in that ship, they can deal with it. “Cross, what are we working with?”
“One ship, class unclear. Looks modified. It’s seen a battle or two.”
“Guns?”
“None visible. Coming in fast.” The second part is unnecessary: They can all see that.
“Fan out,” Hunter decides, “We need to clear the landing zone, get the civilians to safety.”
The ship is coming in too quickly for them to really do that, almost too quickly for a safe landing, at least if they don’t have a very skilled pilot. Lucky it’s so late, then; most people are asleep or at least at home by now. And Omega’s flying practice has taught the people here to clear the plaza quickly at the sound of an incoming ship.
The ship docks quick and easy next to the Marauder and Echo’s ship; Crosshair finds a vantage point on the colonnade surrounding the plaza while his siblings and Phee take their positions on the ground, spread out along the perimeter, Batcher glued to Omega’s side. The cadets, Shep, and Lyana herd a few stragglers off the plaza and into the houses, then stick to the surrounding streets to warn potential curious souls away.
For a moment, everything is still, as if the very island is holding its breath, waiting for whoever is inside that ship to come out.
The ramp lowers, the released steam is lit up by the light from inside the ship. They’re likely not expecting a firefight, then, or they would’ve turned the light off to not give their opponents any advantages. A lone figure steps slowly down the ramp, silhouetted against the light from inside; weight supported on a crutch or cane or some other sort of walking aid. Another step and he’s far enough for Crosshair to make out more details, and—
Had Crosshair been a different man, any less of a professional than he is, he might’ve fallen from his perch in pure disbelief. “Stand down,” he hisses into his comm a beat later, making his hasty but entirely voluntary way down to the ground. He’s halfway across the open space when the ramp of the ship closes, and he hears at least one soft gasp through the comms as the others recognize the no longer back-lit figure.
“Oh,” Tech says when his eyes adjust to the low light, “They got you out, then. That’s good.”
Crosshair should respond; tell him that’s not quite what happened; ask him what the hell happened to him, how he survived, how he made it off Eriadu and back here and whatever else happened to him in the last months, but—later. They can talk about all that later. For now, Crosshair just wants to hold him close and safe. He might not usually be much for showing affection like that in front of others, but it’s mostly just their family anyway, and, kriff, it’s Tech, his twin, the part of himself he thought was lost forever, and now somehow he’s here.
Tech’s free arm has barely come up to return the embrace when a blonde head barrels into their sides, nearly knocking them over, small arms wrapping around them both; then much larger arms nearly lifting them all off the ground, and Crosshair stops paying attention then, because Tech is alive and at the moment that’s all that matters, to any of them.
They end up back on Shep’s terrace, the leftovers brought back out, blankets passed around for everyone against the chill in the night air. None of them will be able to sleep just yet. They’ve forgone the table and chairs in favor of piling half on top of each other on the ground, still warm from being baked in the sun all day. Tech gives them a somewhat perfunctory recounting of his journey since—since they got separated; how the tall trees and the slopes of Eriadu slowed his fall enough to for him survive it; how he lost his helmet and goggles at some point during the decent, but found the helmet again when he woke up on the ground – in time to drag himself to cover, before Hemlock and his men showed up. He tells them how he patched himself up enough to make the trek through the jungle towards the closest city; was picked up by some luckily friendly people who took him in and helped him as well as they could until he was healed enough to start his journey home. They even managed to get him some new goggles, which, while not having all the same functionalities as his old ones, at least lets him see. Crosshair looks at the new scars on his face, around his eyes, and presses just a little closer.
“Hemlock found your old ones,” Hunter tells Tech, “He gave them to us; they’re in the Marauder now. The lenses are broken, but I think the rest survived, more or less.”
“Oh. That is good news; perhaps I make the lenses from these work with the old frames, or acquire new lenses for them and keep these as a back-up. Although, why would Hemlock bring you my broken goggles? And how did he get the opportunity to?”
And that sets the others off on the tale of everything that happened to them since Eriadu: Their contact selling them out to the Empire, Hemlock taking Omega, the months of searching that followed. Omega takes over at one point, once again telling the story of her time in Hemlock’s facility, and of their escape.
“Ah,” Tech says, “That explains the hound.” Tech is leaning half against the wall of Shep and Lyana’s house, half against Crosshair’s side, and Omega has glued herself to his other side, which means Batcher has stretched out across Tech’s lap to be in contact with both of them. She likes the others well enough, too – Wrecker especially – but Crosshair and Omega are hers, apparently.
“Mm-hmm,” Crosshair confirms. “Hunter wanted to leave her behind at first, though as you can imagine, the kid wouldn’t have it.”
“Hah, you weren’t too happy about it either!” Wrecker interjects, while Hunter scowls good-naturedly.
Crosshair ignores them both. “Of course, then we arrived here to find out he’s adopted no less than three kids in the meantime, so I’m not really sure what leg he thought he had to stand on in that regard.”
“I didn’t adopt them,” Hunter argues, his protest undermined by the way his voice is lowered in deference to Deke, who’s asleep against his chest. “We just couldn’t leave them alone on Setron.”
“Of course not,” Crosshair drawls, not at all convinced.
“I am not surprised,” Tech declares, “The Mandalorians have a long-standing tradition for taking in foundlings and treating them as their own children, and as Jango Fett was both Mandalorian and a foundling himself, it would make sense that he has passed that propensity for taking in children in need on to his Clones. Though I admit, the trait does seem… particularly prominent in Hunter.”
“Hah, you got that right!” Wrecker guffaws. Hunter just smiles as everyone laughs at him; even Crosshair can’t hold back a snicker. Stars, but he’s missed Tech.
They keep the conversation light for the rest of the night, reminiscing and gently teasing each other until the sky starts to lighten with the oncoming dawn. They’re idly discussing which of their ships will be better for sleeping in, none of them really keen on making the trek back there, when Shep offers up his living room floor and all the mattresses, blankets, and pillows he can find. As they settle down in what Echo claims is a traditional vode-pile, Crosshair figures it might be time to share those sketches of his after all.