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The new armor is identical to his last set, down to every detail; the slight asymmetry in an inner seam, the pleasing snap of the cuisses joining the knee plates, the hue of the green transparisteel of the visor. Crosshair straps his armor over his blacks, piece by piece. Vambraces, pauldrons, cuirass, greaves. He is methodical and careful in this, as he is everything, and slowly, finally, he begins to feel a soldier again.
Except… the armor rubs across the shoulders, a centimeter loose.
He frowns, ducking his head, rolling his shoulders. He shrugs experimentally, but the armor still sits wrong.
It is a small thing. Nearly imperceptible. Wrecker would have never noticed the difference. Echo would have gone back to the armor’s specs. Tech would likely have found a clever way to alter it on the fly. Hunter would have --
His nostrils flare, lips narrowing. Crosshair shakes his head, face twisting into a grimace.
He must have put it on slightly crooked. The armor is exactly the same make and design as before. There is no reason it would have changed. He stands up straighter, jutting his chin out, tugging at the plate around his neck.
Still loose.
Perhaps it’s not the armor. Perhaps it’s him.
The hunger gnaws at him, a raw pithing agony --
He tries pacing the platform to distract himself, but it’s getting harder and harder. He’s so tired now, and the platform pitches and bucks around him, spinning dizzily in the Kaminoan downpour --
He holds out a weak hand to the ship in the distance, and through his haze he can see every tendon mapped, the sharp jutting of the knuckles, the sickly translucence of the skin --
Crosshair swallows. Medical cleared me. He’s fine. They told him he was fine.
He decides to ignore the loose fit across the shoulders. He will take it to the armory after this mission; he’s due to meet his new commander soon, and there is no time for something so trivial. Rampart’s dig about his unreadiness to command again flickers in the back of his mind, but he ignores that, too. If this is what they ask of him, he is ready to comply.
He reaches for his helmet, places it squarely on his head. His vision swims green. The visor, perfectly narrow and rectangular, shifts his sight and trains his focus.
But there is still no extra cutout for his right eye. Before Kamino he had submitted four requisitions asking for an alteration to the helmet, and all had been denied. He stifles his disappointment. They have their reasons, he is certain.
Though Crosshair still remembers working with the Kaminoans and his squad, pooling ideas and designs for customized armor and weaponry that would make their enhancements shine. They’d been feverish with excitement: Wrecker crowing about materials with increased durability and explosive resistance, Hunter sketching out endless designs for the knife in his gauntlet, Tech waxing rhapsodic about the helmet and goggle system he’d been dreaming of for two years. Crosshair remembers his own requests, his voice steady and sure, filled with the proud certainty that he knew his own abilities and exactly how to boost them.
They’d had their requests granted, every one. When the new armor arrived they’d stayed up half the night in their barracks, gleefully trying out every modification until the regs shouted at them to keep it down.
He reaches up and touches his left pauldron. His gloved fingers brush over its smooth edges, perfectly alike to the right.
They have their reasons….
He picks up his rifle. A replacement 773 Firepuncher, its balance inspired, its weight and heft as familiar as his own arm. He should feel whole, holding it. Restored. Ready to be of service again at last. Yet its weight in his hand does not steady him the way he had expected.
He pushes past the feeling. No matter; the mission calls. Desix and his new commander await, and with them an opportunity to serve the Empire. He opens the door to his room, ready to take it.
The hallway outside his quarters flows with regs in white and black. They march lockstep down the corridor, their boots a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. It irritates him, the sound unpleasant in his ears. He follows at his own pace behind a squad of ten, keeping his gaze down on the floor, and his ill-fitting armor rubs against his neck.
The First Battle Memorial towers above him. He spares it barely a glance, its sea of names having little to do with him, and situates himself near one end to await the meeting with his new commander. He slips off his helmet and stands stock still, tucking the helmet beneath one arm as he rests the butt of his rifle against the floor.
More regs hurry past him, ready to go where they’re needed. They have their orders. He has his --
Good soldiers follow orders.
Good soldiers follow orders.
A pressure building in his head, a voice he doesn’t recognize but knows within his bones, the order -- he was meant for this -- they all were -- why don’t they see it? An ache, confusion, anger rising in his chest, a ringing in his head, what’s happening to him --
All he ever wanted was to be a good soldier --
His shoulders slump slightly. He’d done what needed doing. He would have done it without the chip, if they’d have asked. He’ll prove it. What’s loyalty, after all, without action?
You weren’t loyal to me.
But they hadn’t seen it that way --
His chest aches, heavy beneath his ribs, and it has nothing to do with the fit of his armor.
Crosshair stands silently beneath the great memorial, the golden light softening everything in view. The regs march on past, side by side, footsteps echoing in the vast hall. He shifts his weight and draws himself up to his full height.
He stands alone. The shadows pool around him, and he waits to go and keep the peace.