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Hunter is slowing down.
He doesn’t think he can feel his age, not yet, but the fact of the matter is that he can feel the lines starting to etch themselves into his face and his reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Maybe he’s just more aware of how his body is responding because he’s always just been more aware of everything. He can still feel the siren thrum of the air from an approaching ship, the tremors of the earth from an oncoming attacker, the flashes and pings of electric signals and the static of comm chatter. Maybe it’s the near-constant stream of blasterfire in his ears these days, but it’s getting harder to tell the signals apart, harder to justify what he feels with concrete sources.
He can still hold his own in a fight, though, still feels most like himself when his knuckles are bruised and his muscles are sore and his lungs are burning and he’s still standing.
But even Hunter can have his doubts. He second-guesses nearly every input, every instinct. Double-checks through visors and lenses, datapad scans and readings. Batcher’s been helpful in that regard, since she senses just about as much as Hunter does, if not more. And there’s no room in a lurca hound for doubt.
Maps can be wrong, Tech had told the regs of the 501st once. Hunter never is.
Hunter no longer has his brother’s confidence.
His limbs still ache from the swim and the run up Pabu's central mountain when dawn gives way to morning. Crosshair's told him, in dull tones, what had happened. It's not like Hunter hadn't been able to figure it out from the way the Imperial ships had retreated. The Empire isn't content to give up. Unfortunately for them, neither is Clone Force 99. Wrecker finally stirs, and Hunter and Crosshair stumble over each other's sentences explaining what he missed. Something despairing and desperately sad enters Wrecker's eyes, but they burn like his brothers' all the same. He asks what they're going to do, and Crosshair looks at Hunter, too. They need him to tell them the plan, that they're going to fight for their sister, that they will cross the galaxy a sixth time searching for her.
Hunter's bones ache with the way that even after all this time and all his failures, his brothers still trust him to do the right thing. He doesn't deserve their trust, their loyalty. He doesn't know what he'd do without it.
First things first. He makes sure that Wrecker's actually okay, confirms twice with AZI that the worst of the concussion is over and there's no lingering internal damage. Echo's not responding, but Hunter leaves a message for him anyway to get back in contact first chance he gets. Wrecker asks if they've been able to recover anything from their ship. They haven't, not yet, so that's their next stop. When Hunter steps out of Shep's house and finally gets a look at Pabu's still-burning docks in daylight, his heart sinks slightly. The Empire had made sure to destroy just about every vehicle and vessel on the island. They'll be hard-pressed to find transportation if the Marauder's inoperable.
The three of them are making their way up to where the Marauder had lain the ngiht before when Hunter’s ears prick up at the whine of a ship entering the atmosphere just above them. His instincts scream Separatist, and his reflexes respond blaster, but when Wrecker asks him what’s wrong, Hunter can’t say anything but, “I’m not sure.”
”You’ll need to do better than that.” Crosshair dons his helmet and flicks down his sight, looking up at the sky in the direction that Hunter had reacted.
“A ship,” Hunter admits. “Thought it was Separatist, but it’s probably—”
“It is.”
”What?”
”See for yourself.” Crosshair hands him a pair of monoculars and points into the clouds.
”Great,” Wrecker grumbles, massaging the back of his head. “Just what we needed.”
Hunter squints through the lenses, blinking a few times in surprise when he realizes he recognizes the ship. It’s been a long time, but its shape would be hard to forget, with its short horizontal wings and long vertical body. It’s heading for the same cave that they found Ventress in. Hunter wastes no time donning his helmet and sprinting down to the shore that he had dragged himself to barely hours ago. He beckons Crosshair and Wrecker to follow him with a jerk of his chin, and they follow with weapons drawn.
A hundred questions burn through the back of Hunter's mind, but at the forefront is something close to anticipation. If that ship belongs to who he thinks it does, that could mean a number of things. There's only one way to find out. At any rate, even if things don't turn out the way he hopes they might, a ship's a ship. Anything's better than nothing.
The skid above the rocks at the seaside cave is almost familiar at this point. Hunter holds up a fist by habit, pausing to assess their surroundings for any immediate threat. The barrel of Crosshair's rifle bobs. Hunter notices the tremor in his brother's hand but knows better than to comment on it. Other than that, nothing.
Nothing but a hum in the air he hasn't felt since Ventress. A pit opens in his stomach when he's able to place the feeling. His blaster is in his hands in an instant, and he hears the twin charges from Crosshair's rifle and Wrecker's blaster.
A door on the underside of the strangely-shaped ship hisses open, and a dark-skinned figure steps out, their gait halting and relaxed. The yellow stripe across the figure's face seems to glow in the early morning light. Part of Hunter relaxes. Part of him tenses. His thoughts are racing along with his heartbeat, and he wills his breathing to even out. This isn't the time to dredge up old memories. He can feel Crosshair's eyes on him. Snipers aren't the only ones who know when they're being watched.
"So it's true, then." The figure emerges from the shadow of his ship and crosses his arms, leather wristguards battered and worn and long dark hair cascading over his shoulders. "You managed to survive the war after all."
"Who's that?" Wrecker stage-whispers to Hunter.
"Didn't believe Asajj at first when she mentioned a couple of defective clones all the way out here, I'll tell you that." The newcomer's tone is casual, but there's a tautness to their expression that Hunter finds himself sympathizing with. Common sense would say that they're enemies, but he figures they've both been through too much to make such black-and-white distinctions. "Had to see for myself."
"And what do you see?" Hunter ventures. He doesn't lower his blaster, especially not after hearing Ventress' name.
The figure raises both hands. "I see a soldier unsure if I'm his friend or his enemy."
A soldier. After all that Hunter's done to keep his squad sheltered from the Empire, that's still all he is. Not like he knows how to do much else. Still, of all the people to hear that from—
"It's been a while, Hunter."
Hunter doesn't need to look at either of his brothers to feel their surprise. It makes sense. They'd spent more time apart than together as cadets, each of them having his own training regimen carefully crafted to optimize their mutations for combat. Wrecker had been trained by ARC troopers and commandos. Crosshair had been trained by assassins and bounty hunters. Tech had been trained by slicers and engineers. But at least the three of them got to stay on Kamino until they were officially deployed. Hunter had spent eight months at the battlefront before their squad was even approved for action, ferried between this planet and that, constantly between one firefight and the next.
And his mentor is staring right up at him.
"State your business," Crosshair hisses, voice curling like a coiled snake.
"Asajj mentioned one of you had an M-count the Empire's after," the newcomer says carefully, eyes flicking briefly to Crosshair before settling back on Hunter. "I'm here to help."
"Yeah?" Wrecker scoffs. "And who are you?"
"Quinlan Vos." Vos tilts his head by way of greeting. "I'm surprised Hunter hasn't mentioned me."
"I'm sure you can guess why." In the back of his mind, Hunter knows it's not worth taking a dig at the one person he might actually trust to help them get to Tantiss. Still, it's not like he and Vos had parted on the best of terms. And he still can't ignore the way Vos and Ventress seem to be on first-name terms, the way he says her name with something close to fondness.
Something almost apologetic comes over Vos' expression. "I know you don't trust me. But for what it's worth, it wasn't my decision to leave you."
Anger bubbles in Hunter's chest, especially when he knows that's just going to prompt more questions from his brothers later, but he forces it down. They need all the help they can get. He stows his blaster in lieu of a response, but he doesn't remove his helmet. He won't give Vos that satisfaction, at least.
"Answers first," he says curtly. "Are you working with Ventress?"
"Working is a strong word," Vos says. "We're... we're close. Hard to say much more than that."
"She told you where to find us." It's more a statement than a question.
Vos nods.
"Who else would she have told?"
"Look, Asajj isn't like that," Vos sighs. "She's a Class One bounty hunter. That means she gets the high-value targets, like M-count bounties. She passes those along to me, and I make sure they get off the Empire's radar for good. That's why I'm here. Which one of you needs to disappear?"
Crosshair's brow furrows. "What do you mean, disappear?"
"Are you another bounty hunter?" Wrecker asks at the same time.
Hunter exhales. "He's a Jedi."
"What?"
Vos stretches out his hand at Wrecker's confused expression, and a slender silver lightsaber hilt jumps from his waist to his palm, a yellow-green blade igniting behind his back. Its color almost matches Ventress'. He swings it a couple times, more for show than an attack. The blade moves with a hum that rumbles low in Hunter's bones.
"A Jedi who survived Order 66." Crosshair's looking straight at Vos, but the sharpness in his tone and his side-eye are clearly meant for Hunter, an unspoken demand for an explanation as soon as Vos is no longer in earshot.
"And you're clones who didn't execute the order?" There's something knowing in Vos' eyes, and Crosshair's grip on his rifle tightens. Wrecker tenses too, though more out of guilt than indignation. A humorless grin touches Vos' lips. "Yeah, I thought so."
"We didn't have a choice," Hunter says defensively, stepping forward in front of his brothers. "You didn't have a chip in your head commanding your every action."
"Maybe not, but at the end of the day, we're all responsible for what we do." Vos stows his lightsaber and offers a hand. "And for what we didn't do."
Hunter stares at Vos' outstretched hand. He knows what Vos is capable of. What will he see if he touches Hunter? Will he still want to help, once he sees how Hunter had stood to the side and let his squad be destroyed from the inside out? Will he still want to help, once he sees the lows that Hunter had gone to in the ten months apart from his little sister, how each of the scorch and scuff marks on his armor had been earned? Will he still want to help, once he sees how few times Hunter's set his blaster to stun in that time? Will he be disappointed in what Hunter's become?
This isn't the time for that. Omega needs him, needs all of them. If Quinlan Vos is offering to help, Hunter will be damned if he doesn't accept.
He tries to ignore the way the air prickles against his skin when he shakes Vos' hand.
"Whadja think they're doin' now?" Wrecker whispers.
"I doubt anything much different than the last time you asked," Crosshair shoots back. The two of them are perched among the rocks at the mouth of the cave, while Hunter and the Jedi have ventured further into the cave. Until a few minutes ago, they had been crouched in near-identical poses with palms to the ground, sifting through the salt-slicked pebbles. It's a position that's familiar in Hunter, the way he gets low to the ground and feels the earth when he's tracking. It's strange to see the Jedi doing the same.
Hunter had said they could go back up and check on their ship if they wanted, but they'd both been reluctant to leave their brother behind, Jedi or none. There's more to this Jedi than what Hunter's telling them, but Crosshair knows better than to demand answers when they're not alone. So instead he waits here with Wrecker, chewing on his toothpick, polishing his rifle, and speculating.
It's been some time since he's last talked with his twin, just the two of them. Wrecker's the most familiar to him, out of the rest of the Batch. Crosshair knows Hunter wasn't the first experimental clone, but he's the first of them to actually make it past the first year. Tech had followed after three failures. Wrecker and Crosshair had been back-to-back successes, though there had been six between them and Tech. Ten between them and Hunter. In the early months, it had just been him and Wrecker. Crosshair hasn't forgotten the way Wrecker had asked him why he hadn't come back when they'd been trapped underwater in the attack on Tipoca City. We would have taken you back. Crosshair never doubted Wrecker, but the look in Hunter's eyes had been completely foreign then.
There's something unfamiliar about Hunter now, too, with the way he won't even shed his helmet. Crosshair suspects the Jedi has something to do with it, seeing as how Hunter never misses an opportunity to be rid of his helmet. In a way, he sympathizes. Helmets can feel limiting, claustrophobic, especially when you're used to having more of the world at your fingertips than what the lenses and sensors filter through. On the other hand, though, Crosshair's not blind. The Jedi also has long hair and a face tattoo. He doubts that's coincidence.
It makes sense, in a way. At any rate, some of the pieces are falling into place. Crosshair still remembers meeting Hunter for the first time when they were still cadets, the way Hunter had already had war branded into his eyes when they'd first come together as a squad. He must have crossed paths with this Jedi then.
It's an unspoken rule that they don't talk much about their training. There's not much to say. It's not like any of them had ever struggled growing up. Wrecker always had a knack for mechanics, seeing the connections between wires and currents and what chemicals would mix together to produce the biggest explosions. And Crosshair never had much difficulty making shots until now. Back then, it was more just about practicing angles and learning the different ways a blaster bolt could skip from one surface to the next. Admittedly, Crosshair doesn't know much about Hunter or Tech's training. But it probably would have made for more boring conversation than the latest stream of information that Tech had learned from their most recent mission and was animatedly repeating to them.
Without Tech, it's mostly silence between Crosshair and Wrecker. Close as they are, they both have the tendency to shut up when something weighs them down. Neither needs Tech's intellect to deduce what the other's thinking about. It goes without saying that they're going to get Omega back, by any means necessary. Crosshair clenches his trembling hand into a fist. If he hadn't missed—
Hunter's whistle cuts through the air. Crosshair's on his feet in an instant, rolling his shoulders.
"General Vos has an idea of where to start," Hunter says, as the Jedi brushes past him to board his ship. "We're going, too."
Wrecker's nose wrinkles. "In that?"
It's like he stole the words from Crosshair's mouth. The Jedi's ship— if it can even be called a ship— certainly has seen better days.
The Jedi gives them a dry look. "You're more than welcome to stay here, but from what I hear, your ship seems pretty grounded to me."
Hunter's expression is simultaneously impatient and weary. There's a bite to his words when he says, "We don't have any other options."
Crosshair can't argue with that.
Wrecker only gives a soft sigh but dutifully follows the Jedi into his ship. Crosshair steps up after, but not without a hard stare at Hunter that the other barely seems to have the will to reciprocate.
There's barely room in the cockpit for all four of them. Clearly, the Jedi must be used to traveling alone. There's not even a droid aboard. There's an empty seat across from the Jedi's that's probably meant for a copilot, but none of them take it, not even Hunter. Behind, it's only standing room. Either that or the cargo hold. The Jedi seems nonplussed, barely looking at the instrumentation as he flicks switches and presses buttons to initialize takeoff.
"Well," Crosshair remarks drily, crammed between the wall and Hunter, "this is cosy."
"One of you could take a seat," the Jedi offers.
Crosshair and Wrecker exchange a glance over Hunter's head before their leader exhales and sits across from the Jedi. There's a tenseness in his shoulders that still hasn't faded. Crosshair can't attribute it all to just the pain of losing Omega again. He can't even bring himself to dwell on his own failures, as much as he probably deserves to. Drowning himself in guilt won't change anything. He needs to focus on what is happening around him now, what he can change and what can change him.
"So where are we going?" Wrecker asks.
"General Vos found evidence pointing to a couple of systems in the Mid Rim," Hunter answers for the Jedi. "We're starting there."
"And what 'evidence' is this, exactly?" Crosshair arches one eyebrow.
"Psychometry," the Jedi replies. "If I touch something or someone, I can see traces of where they've been through the Force."
"One of the clone assassins had been through that cave," Hunter adds, nodding back at Crosshair. "We can't guarantee that the assassin's been to Tantiss recently, but you said that Tantiss is where they're created. So the general figures it's likely we can get a lead that way."
"I told you to cut it out with that 'General' kriff." The Jedi's tone is light but guarded as they break the atmosphere and enter space. He inputs coordinates to his hyperdrive. "War's over."
"Not for all of us." The last person that Hunter had used that tone on had been Crosshair himself. Intriguing.
The stars are cold and match the silence that falls over the cabin. Lights elongate from points into lines, and soon the swirling blue masses of hyperspace leave them awash in its glow. Wrecker tries to stretch and ends up hitting his head on the low ceiling. He grunts, half in pain, half in annoyance, holding his head.
"More room in the cargo hold, if you want," the Jedi comments. At Hunter's glare, he rolls his eyes. "Look, we're all going to be stuck on this ship for the next few hours, and it doesn't do us any good to sit here feeling cramped. So if you want some space, take it while you can. Something tells me it's been pretty much one thing after another for you three."
"That so." Hunter's eyes flit up to Wrecker, then to Crosshair. Crosshair gives a subtle shrug.
"Probably also some spare bacta patches if the big guy needs one."
"Hm." There's a set to Hunter's jaw, but he gets up anyway and leads the way to the cargo hold, a ladder climb below the cockpit. Wrecker climbs down after, and Crosshair moves to follow. He has one hand on the ladder when the Jedi speaks to him.
"You've been through a lot."
Crosshair scoffs. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
The Jedi doesn't turn, but Crosshair can't shake the feeling that he's somehow watching him anyway. "Doesn't do much good to hide anything from them."
"What would you know?"
A shrug. "Take it from a guy who's also played both sides. In the end, all that matters is who you trust to have your back."
"Hunter doesn't trust you," Crosshair says. "So I don't trust you, either."
"Loyalty," the Jedi muses. "I respect that. But that's what you clones are all about, isn't it? Must be killing you to keep all those secrets inside you."
Crosshair can't stand to be alone with the man for any longer. Eyes narrowed, he puts one foot on the ladder and makes his way down. When he steps off, he tosses his helmet aside. Hunter and Wrecker have both shed theirs, and Hunter's plastering a bacta patch to the back of Wrecker's head. For a cargo hold, there's not much cargo. A few scattered crates here and there. Wrecker sits on one while Hunter stands. Crosshair leans against the opposite wall.
"You get the Quinlan Vos treatment, then?" Hunter's tone is wry.
"I'm still waiting for you to explain how you know him." Crosshair reaches for the dispenser at his belt and plucks a toothpick from it, setting it between his teeth.
Hunter sighs. "It was a long time ago."
He doesn't elaborate, and Crosshair raises his eyebrows at the silence, prompting him to continue.
"It's not important," Hunter decides. "What matters is that he's a better tracker than me."
"I doubt that," Wrecker chimes in.
"Appreciated." Something almost like a smile tugs at the corner of Hunter's mouth. "But that's the truth. None of us can use the Force."
"I still fail to see why we're traveling with a Jedi when they're the most wanted targets by the Empire," Crosshair points out. "Especially if the point is to not attract attention to ourselves."
"Vos said the Empire's been after high M-count targets for a while," Hunter explains. "That includes Jedi, but it also includes people who aren't formally trained as Jedi, like Omega. He also says that the open bounty doesn't say anything about a target's age, so it's entirely possible they're targeting children."
"But why?" Wrecker frowns. "If they killed all the Jedi in the first place, why do they want new ones?"
"Why do they want a new army, if the clones are still around?" Hunter counters. "The Empire will do away with whatever it deems a liability and replace it with something it can control. It couldn't control us, and it couldn't control the Jedi. That's why they're recruiting stormtroopers. That's probably why they're taking kids."
A dull ache starts throbbing in Crosshair's hand, the one that trembles on a good day and is utterly unusable on a bad day. AZI had deemed it a psychosomatic injury, but Crosshair knows better. He'd known the risks when he'd slammed that hand between durasteel doors to break the second chip inside. He'd figured the Empire would discard him the way it had discarded Mayday, but they'd inexplicably left him alive. They'd given his hand just enough treatment to replace the shattered bones and graft new skin over the scars, but the damage was done. He'd never kill for them again.
"They still need clones for something, though," Crosshair says. "Otherwise, they'd shoot us the minute we become useless to them. They wouldn't ship us off to Tantiss. The only times clones have been killed is when they're being silenced."
The air grows heavy at that.
Hunter's sigh is frustrated. "Vos said he's helped kids before, Jedi kids who escaped the purge. Once we get Omega back, he'll help her escape the Empire for good, maybe even all of us. And that's what we're going to do. This isn't a fight we can win."
Wrecker hums ambivalently, but Crosshair is inclined to agree. He'd known there was no escape the moment he'd seen the CX at Rex's base. Running is futile, and hiding can only protect them for so long. But that's the life they've been born into. Fight gloriously for a Republic that pretended to care for a few years, fight in vain to protect your existence for the rest of whatever was left. Crosshair's seen the dark circles under Hunter's eyes, the greys that have started to trickle into his brother's hair. It's only a matter of time before the years catch up to the Bad Batch.
Crosshair doesn't know if they'll be lucky to die young. He doesn't know if he wants to grow old if it'll be under the Empire's grip. He tries to imagine his brothers phasing out of their prime, tries to imagine Hunter's senses dulling and Wrecker's strength fading. He doesn't think he can do it. As much as he'd like to hide from the Empire forever, he can't imagine a galaxy where he doesn't have to wear his armor, where his Firepuncher isn't in his hands or on his back. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the arc of the tracker where it had fallen into the sea. It hadn't even been an anomaly, just another bad shot to follow on the hundreds of bad shots since Tantiss. Even if they get Omega back, even if they all make it back alive, even if the Jedi can hide them for however long he's able, Crosshair doubts he'll ever sleep the same again. If he doesn't have something to fight for, something to work towards, that guilt will eat him whole.
His hand still hurts.