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The Marauder was a ghost ship now.
Crosshair sat in the back of it as far away from Hunter and Wrecker as he could, Batcher wide-eyed and alert at his feet. Omega was up front with the others, fast asleep draped over Wrecker’s chest, head on his shoulder. Occasionally Hunter or Wrecker would glance back at him, then back at each other. That felt right. He wouldn’t have trusted him either.
They weren’t the source of his unease, anyway.
The engines hummed around him, familiar as ever, the sound unmistakable. He used to dream that hum sometimes during his time with the Empire, waking up with a start to realize his cramped quarters were silent. It reverberated around him, soft and almost lulling in the background.
The smells of the ship were the same, oil and sweat and machinery. They were intense, but almost comforting. The problem wasn’t the scent.
But the cabin’s dimensions were wrong. How could the space feel so vast while the walls were closing in?
Omega had told him as much as she could, in her rare visits stolen down to his cell. Echo had been gone on and off for some time, feeling called to help the other regs. His absence was not a surprise. But Tech’s…
Hemlock’s voice, bored, disinterested, cold. “Your little escape attempt has had some interesting effects. I wonder what your squad was trying to accomplish. All they’ve managed to do is lose one of their own. Two, if you count the young clone.”
Don’t give him the satisfaction --
But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “You’re lying.”
Hemlock smirked. “I have no reason to lie to you, CT-9904. Omega is now a guest here. And as for this Tech -- it is always fascinating, to see how clones name each other -- well, it’s not as if there is a shortage of subjects for the Empire’s use.”
His heart stuttering in his chest -- a wave of cold flooding him, crushing him, weighing him down a thousand times more than the straps across his body --
Perhaps it had been for the best that Hemlock had been the one to tell him. Because the first time Omega managed to sneak down to see him, when she’d looked into his eyes and her face crumpled, when she’d tried and failed to find the words, he’d been able to stop her.
“I… I know about Tech.”
But hearing the words from Hemlock’s mouth, seeing the tears on Omega’s face, they were nothing compared to the haunting of the Marauder.
Crosshair folded his arms, sinking into himself, his chest heavy. Hunter sat in the pilot’s seat, something he’d only used to do before Echo joined them and only when Tech needed sleep. The ship was too tidy, no tangles of wires or signs of half-finished projects scattered around; and far too quiet, no chatter, no facts, no plans, no ideas floated into the air. The absence was smothering.
There was a flicker of movement up front. Crosshair glanced over. Hunter had rotated his chair to quietly talk to Wrecker, and in doing so revealed more of the console.
Tech’s goggles stared back at him.
Crosshair jerked backward at the sight, accidentally nudging Batcher. The hound woofed, getting to her feet and moving away, giving him a hurt look.
The noise started Omega awake. From Wrecker’s shoulder, she yawned and rubbed her eyes, tilting her head to one side.
“Crosshair? Are you okay?”
He ripped his gaze away from Tech’s goggles, staring at her instead, his hand twisting at his side. “I’m fine,” he said hastily. “Something must have startled the hound.”
She must have seen his face, the way his eyes were still drawn past her. Omega glanced back at the console, and went very, very still.
“Kid?” Wrecker asked in concern.
“What is it, Omega?” Hunter asked.
She shook her head, her eyes welling with tears, turning away from the goggles. “You -- you still have them,” she whispered.
Hunter blanched, giving Wrecker a pained look. He reached out, resting his hand on Omega’s shoulder, bowing his head. “We… yeah. It’s --” He swallowed. “We think about him. A lot.”
“I -- I never saw them up close before --” She buried her face in Wrecker’s shoulder, her sudden sobs muffled by his embrace.
“Hey, hey,” Wrecker said, holding her tightly The three of them drew in close together, bound in a way Crosshair couldn’t begin to imagine.
It was too much. Crosshair got to his feet, pacing to the back of the ship, rubbing one arm, trying to forget what he’d seen.
Cracks spidering through the right lens, left lens shattered, flecks of dark dried blood and earth on the red bulb’s surface --
He reached out, one hand grasping hold of the wall, fingers digging into its ridged surface. He clung to it until his hand ached, breathing sharp and shallow and much too fast.
“How did it happen?” he’d asked dully.
“He fell,” she whispered. “The railcars were damaged. There was too much weight. Wrecker tried to get him, but he said -- he said it was the only way -- Plan 99 --”
His throat was closing. He couldn’t breathe.
“But why were you there at all?” he snarled. “I tried to warn them -- didn’t they get the message?”
She was trying not to cry, trying to keep her voice down. She hugged herself, shaking her head. “We got it. But he and I wanted to help you -- you’re our brother --”
A sharp shock of pain, his knuckles shrieking. She stared at him with wide eyes. He blinked. Shook out his hand slowly.
He hadn’t made a single dent in the wall, but his knuckles throbbed for days.
Batcher nudged his leg, whining. He ignored her.
He should go back. Go back to his seat before the others missed him, before Omega came to check on him, before Hunter or Wrecker came to keep an eye on him. He swallowed past the thick lump in his throat, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
Don’t think about him. Move on.
He made his way back to his seat and slid into it clumsily. Batcher sat beside him, fixing him with those red eyes, the whole line of her watchful and stiff.
“What?” he muttered. She cocked her head, whimpering slightly. “Leave me alone.” She gave him an affronted look and lay back down, flopping mournfully to one side.
Crosshair leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. He could no longer hear Omega’s crying. Hunter and Wrecker must have helped calm her down. At least they knew what to do.
He tried to breathe more deeply, but he seemed to have forgotten how. He listened to the engine hum, and he thought about the voice that should have overlaid it --
“I’ve been devising adjustments to Plan 51. I see now that the original plan lacked versatility when accounting for adverse weather or significant elevation. Now listen closely, Hunter, as this hinges upon your enhanced senses and your assessment of the environmental conditions --”
“I’ve completed my newest modifications for the Marauder. It has been boosted for fuel efficiency, control sensitivity, and I have also fixed the temperature control again -- yes, Wrecker, you are welcome --”
“That was an excellent use of Plan 37, Crosshair. Your success rate with that particular plan is nothing short of astonishing -- of course, I have never doubted your abilities --”
Crosshair let out a ragged gasp, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. It came away damp.
Plan 99.
The Marauder thrummed gently, as familiar as anything, as distant as a stranger. Crosshair hunched over himself in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of Hunter or Wrecker occasionally talking, Omega fast asleep once more, Batcher’s breaths nearby.
He remembered Tech’s face first thing in the morning, brown eyes squinting, brow furrowed. He remembered how he’d immediately slip his goggles on, eyes focusing sharply, mind ready to work.
He thought of Tech’s face without them, so like his own and unlike, too.
He thought of Tech’s face, just as shattered as the lenses --
Crosshair gazed into the darkness, and only ghosts gazed back.