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“Do you have any tattoos?” Omega asks, little splayed hands holding the panel up while Tech tightens the bolts.
“I do not.”
“Why?”
Tech sighs. “I do not understand the need for permanent alterations to my person.”
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed, as though Tech has become a little less interesting than he was a moment before.
“Wrecker does not have one either,” Tech says. “And neither does Echo.”
“So only Hunter and Crosshair have tattoos,” Omega says. “And me, someday. Hunter says I have to wait even though I’m older than he was when he got his tattoo.”
“The fact that we age differently than you, Omega, makes that an unfair comparison,” Tech says. “I hope that if you do decide to forever mark yourself, it will be a little more discreet than either of our brothers.”
Omega laughs. “I won’t get a face tattoo, I promise.”
“Well, then, you are already showing more discernment than many clones I’ve come across.” Tech finishes tightening the last bolt. “There, that should do it. I appreciate your assistance.”
Omega bounces on the toes of her boots. “You’re welcome, Tech! Do you need any more help?”
Tech unlatches his data pad from his belt, checking over his list. “No, I believe that is all until Wrecker and Hunter return with parts.”
“Okay!” Omega chirps. She spins on her heel and races up the ramp, disappearing from sight.
Tech distantly hears Echo tell Omega not to run on the ship. Tech rolls his eyes. No matter how many times the rule is reiterated, the girl needs constant reminding. Perhaps he and his brothers were like that when they were at her developmental age; however, the Kaminoans and their trainers were not so patient.
To Tech’s surprise, Omega returns a moment later, taking the ramp at a much more subdued speed, her arms clutched around a booklet of flimsi Wrecker had gotten for her. “I want to show you my designs.”
“Your designs?” Tech asks.
Omega gives him a look, a look he believes he might be guilty of giving himself when something is obvious . “For my tattoo.”
“Ah,” Tech says.
Omega grins. “There’s some regular sketches too.”
Omega hands over the bound flimsi, and Tech begins to turn through the sheets. The designs are minimalistic yet detailed, to his surprise, with clean, crisp lines. If he feels a twinge of reminisce of Crosshair’s own sketches, he keeps the emotion carefully at bay. Omega is talented, he must admit.
He stops to admire one work in particular. It is a simple rendition of the skull from his helmet. “This is well done, Omega,” he tells her.
Omega peeks around to look at the page he has stopped on. “Really? You like it?”
“Indeed,” he says.
“I drew it for you,” Omega says. “I saw how sad you looked when you repainted your helmet and had to cover your skull design.”
Crosshair had designed that skull for him, in another lifetime. Covering it up after Kamino fell was only logical, and Tech thought he had done the task with no visible emotional reaction. However, Omega picks up on many things that seem to elude her brothers’ notice.
“Thank you,” Tech says.
Omega beams up at him. “And if you ever decide to do permanent altercations , you can use my design if you want!”
Tech chuckles. “We shall have to see about that.”
**
Few things were recovered from the Marauder’s wreckage after it was destroyed; however, a small, watertight box was found, Tech’s name engraved on its lid. Lyana had kept it safe until the Batch returned from Tantiss, and then they had tucked the box away. It felt wrong to open it, somehow, without permission Tech could never give.
But tonight, Omega wakes from a nightmare she hasn’t had in years. She slips out of her bed and down the hall to the closet. She is able to reach the top shelf now without a chair from the kitchen, her fingers brushing the cold sides of Tech’s box. She pulls it down and takes it back to her room.
She doesn’t open it for a long time, just sitting with the box in front of her on the bed, as though its presence alone might be the last remnants of the brother she lost so long ago. Then, she unlatches it and lifts the lid.
Inside are some trinkets, medals from the Clone War, two data sticks, and some random nuts and bolts. A piece of flimsi is folded at the bottom. She lifts it out carefully and unfolds it. And there is her simplistic rendition of the skull from Tech’s helmet staring up at her. Her breath catches in her throat, a smile trembling on her lips. The pride she’d felt when Tech first applauded her work bubbles up anew.
At the bottom of the sheet, in small neat letters, Tech’s careful handwriting: Skull by Omega 19 BBY - Future tattoo design when the time comes .
Omega laughs and sobs in the same breath. He’d actually thought about it, getting a tattoo with her design. At the time, she thought he was humoring her, and he probably was. But in the end, he’d saved it, noted its purpose among his prized possessions.
The time had never come for Tech, cut short and sudden.
But maybe Omega can get it in his stead.