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“Hey! Who threw my lucky blacks in the trash bin!”
Echo sighs. He thought he had buried those things deep enough Wrecker wouldn’t notice. “Why are you digging through the bin?”
Wrecker holds the undersuit close to his chest like they are his most precious possession. “ You threw them away? Why?”
“It’s a scientific wonder those things haven’t simply disintegrated,” Tech says, not looking up from his latest project taking up the barrack’s table. “Let them go, Wrecker.”
“No, they’re fine!” Wrecker shakes out the garment before lovingly wadding them up in a ball.
“Are you kriffing serious?” Echo asks, appalled. He begins counting on his fingers, using his scomp to point at each digit for emphasis. “They’re threadbare. They’re covered in holes. They smell like something crawled into them, died, and decomposed.” That last point counted for three.
Tech chuckles. “That is an apt description.”
“If I washed them, it would wash the luck off,” Wrecker says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
“You haven’t washed them?” Echo cries. “Wrecker! That has to be a healthcode violation!”
Wrecker shoves the wad of cloth in his crate, and kicks the box under his bed. “What does it matter to you?” he asks. “They aren’t hurting anyone.”
“The smell brings literal tears to my eyes!” Echo argues.
Wrecker smiles. “Not my fault you’re so sensitive .”
Echo rolls his eyes. Obviously, this is an argument he is not going to win.
**
Crosshair puts a hand over his nose. “Ugh, what is that vile smell?”
“Aw, shut up, Cross, they’re not that bad,” Wrecker says, pulling his offensive blacks from his pack.
“They smell worse than they’ve ever smelled! What did you do to them?”
Wrecker scowls. “ Echo tried throwing them away, so I had to hide them. They never got a chance to air out.”
“Kriff, you had one job, Echo,” Crosshair gripes.
“He literally dug them out of the trash,” Echo grumbles, putting his helmet on and making sure the filter is on.
“I don’t go around throwing away your guys’ stuff,” Wrecker grumbles.
“Tell you what,” Crosshair says. “If I ever become insane enough to have something that disgusting, you have permission to burn it.”
Wrecker mutters something rude in Huttese, and begins to try untangling the limbs of the undersuit from their wadded mass. As he works at a particularly difficult knot, there is a loud ripping sound. Wrecker gasps. “Oh, no!”
“You can’t honestly be surprised,” Crosshair deadpans. “Those threads were held together by filth alone.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I need these!” Wrecker cries, and Echo is stunned to realize that the giant is actually crying.
If the startled look on Crosshair’s face is anything to go by, the sniper is just as surprised.
Wrecker drops down into one of the crash seats, cradling the torn blacks in his hands. “I was wearing these the day that detonation went wrong,” he says, voice thick. He reaches up and touches the scars on the side of his head. “Could’ve killed me, but it didn’t. Ever–” his voice breaks, and he starts again. “Ever since, whenever I feel nervous about a mission, I’d wear these blacks, and nothing bad would happen, or if it did, it would turn out okay, ya know?”
The tearful confession leaves Echo feeling lousy for trying to throw the blacks away to begin with.
“Listen, Wrecker,” Crosshair says. “Those blacks can’t do kark.”
Echo scowls at the sniper. He isn’t helping. At all.
But the man isn’t finished. “But if they could ,” he continues, “you wouldn’t have to wear the whole thing for them to work. Here, give them to me.”
Wrecker hesitates, sniffs, but hands the ruined article over.
Crosshair pulls out a short blade, finds the cuff off one sleeve, and cuts it off. He holds up the circle of fabric. “Wear this. It’ll work the same.”
“How do you know?” Wrecker asks, taking the cuff and slipping it over his wrist.
“Because I said so,” Crosshair says. “If you can decide that a pair of blacks is good luck, I can decide that one cuff is just as lucky. Besides, now you can wear it all the time without worrying about it falling off your body.”
Wrecker gives Crosshair a wobbly smile. “Thanks, Cross.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crosshair grunts. He holds out the remainder of the fabric. “Now get rid of these before the noxious fumes kill one of us.”
Wrecker takes them, stroking the mutilated threads. “We had a good run,” he tells them.
Crosshair rolls his eyes, but there is no heat in the action.
Echo grins under his helmet. He knew the man was soft.
END