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PART 1
The Rho-class shuttle groaned as it punched through the atmospheric turbulence of Barton IV. Inside the hold, Crosshair sat like a statue, his long-shot rifle resting between his knees. Opposite him, Lieutenant Nolan checked his chronometer for the fifth time in ten minutes.
"A year," Nolan muttered to himself, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Republic left a depot of high-value cargo in the hands of obsolete units for an entire year."
Crosshair didn't respond. He had heard the word "obsolete" enough lately to recognise it had become the Empire’s favourite term for his kind.
When the ramp hissed open, the cold didn't just drift in—it rushed them like an attack.
"Where is the commanding officer?" Nolan demanded, stepping out onto the permafrost.
A single figure emerged from the largest shack. This wasn't the pristine kind of reg Crosshair was used to. The clone’s armour was a patchwork of scavenged plating and tan bandages wrapped tight to seal the gaps against the wind, a tattered kama fluttering around his legs.
"You’re thirty-seven rotations late," the clone said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He didn't salute or stand straight, he just leaned against the closest pillar. "Commander Mayday. Welcome to the end of the line."
Nolan’s eyes swept past Mayday toward the empty perimeter. "Where is the rest of the unit?"
Mayday’s gaze drifted toward the jagged horizon. "Hexx and Veitch went out a cycle ago to track a shipment of stolen crates. Raiders. They haven't checked back in." It was clear by his empty tone the commander had lost all hope that they would. "The rest are long dead."
Nolan didn't offer any sympathies. "Then they have failed their duty. Secure the perimeter and have the cargo prepared for transport. I expect a full inventory by morning; for your sake, let us hope that is the only cargo you lost." He spared a final glance at Crosshair. "CT-9904, you will stay with the Commander and prevent any further failures."
"Sir." Crosshair replied, his voice flat.
The Lieutenant turned to the two stormtroopers flanking him. "Secure the shuttle." Crosshair watched the ramp seal shut. The two stormtroopers didn't even looked back as they retreated into the warmth.
"Nice friends you brought," Mayday commented. "Come on, CT-9904. Or do you have a name?"
"Crosshair," the sniper replied drily, shifting his rifle.
"Crosshair," Mayday repeated. "Mayday. Though these days, that’s more of a status report than a name. Inventory's all ready to go, that just leaves the perimeter check. Stay close, wouldn't want an ice worm ruining your first day."
Crosshair obediently followed the other out into the white abyss, always only a few steps behind. Above them, large, dark shapes circled in the storm—angular and patient. Crosshair tracked them with the barrel of his rifle.
"Ice vultures," Mayday said, not bothering to look up. "They’re scavengers. They don't hunt; they just wait for the cold to do the work for them. They’ve been circling this depot since we first got here. They know the math better than we do."
Crosshair looked at the birds, then at Mayday’s staggering but determined gait.
"They're going to be disappointed."
Mayday let out a dry, raspy chuckle that turned into a cough. "I’ve been disappointing everything on this planet for a year, Sniper. Don't see why today should be any different."
It wasn't long till all the ice-worm sensors on the perimeter were deemed still functioning, if only barely. There were no sign of raiders, nor the two clone troopers Mayday had spoke of on the horizon. Crosshair stood and looked out as far as his scope would allow, but there was nothing but snow and vultures as far as the eye could see.
"Move it, Sniper," Mayday rasped from where they stood back near the landing zone. "Standing out here is just a slow way to find a grave."
Inside the storehouse, the air smelled of ozone and ancient dust. Along the far wall, a row of clone helmets sat on crates—scuffed, dented, and empty. The only monuments Mayday’s men would ever get.
Mayday reached up, his gloved fingers fumbling with the seals of his battered helmet. With a hiss of pressurised air, he pulled it off. His face was a map of exhaustion—a thick beard streaked with grey and matted with frost. A small scar ran jagged across his brow. He looked as old as Cody or Rex, and even more war-weary.
Crosshair hesitated, then reached for his own. He removed the sleek, dark helmet, revealing his pale, sharp features and the silver shock of his hair. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the resemblance a haunting ghost both had become numb to long ago.
"You look like you've seen a lot of bad days." Mayday commented softly, setting his helmet down next to the others. It was less than he had expected, the reg showing no shock at his defects, no curiosity.
"I could say the same." Crosshair replied, making the other smile just a little.
Mayday hunched over a heater, his hands trembling as he whacked it a few times to get it working. Once it flickered to life he sat in front of it with a weary sigh. Every following breath was a shallow, guarded effort.
"Something on my face, Sniper, or are you just admiring the local décor? Because if you're looking for a salute, I think I left mine in the last ice storm."
Crosshair leaned against a stack of crates, observing the other slowly. He was almost as pale as Crosshair, but he clearly shouldn't have been.
"You're sick."
"Yep, no bacta left out here. Most of it was stolen. I just breathe through the rattle." He looked over at Crosshair’s gear. "A specialist huh? They sent a scalpel to do a sledgehammer's job. Makes me wonder what’s in those crates. What’s worth leaving us out here to rot for?"
"...No idea." Crosshair finally said. There was a long moment of silence before Mayday spoke again.
"At ease, Crosshair. The heater’s dying. If you want to keep those fingers I'd get over here. Pride doesn't generate heat."
The silence was heavy, but finally Crosshair moved. He slid down next to Mayday, their armoured shoulders overlapping. Beneath the gear, there was a desperate, shared warmth.
"We're just lines on a ledger to them," Mayday mumbled into the darkness, staring out at the helmets of his fallen squad.
"The Empire values efficiency," Crosshair tried to defend, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.
"The Empire values results," Mayday corrected. "Results don't care who bleeds. Efficiency implies someone is looking out for the machine. No one is looking out for us... Not anymore."
Mayday leaned his head back, his breathing ragged. Crosshair watched the man’s profile in the orange glow. He had never been fond of regs, even Echo had to earn his trust, but there was a dignity in Mayday’s decay that the Empire’s shiny new stormtroopers could never replicate. A strange, uncomfortable spark of loyalty flickered in Crosshair’s chest—not to the Empire, but to the man coughing beside him.
"If I don't make it through the night," Mayday whispered, his eyes shut "Don't die for these crates. Don't let them take everything from you before you realise you've got nothing left to give."
Crosshair only shifted slightly closer, allowing the other to lean against him fully as his head drooped, finally falling to the younger troopers shoulder as he began to snore.
PART 2
The transition from night to dawn was marked by the heater finally giving up with a pathetic metallic groan. The sudden silence was absolute, save for the rhythmic, wet rattle in Mayday’s chest. The orange glow faded, leaving them in a world of suffocating, pre-dawn blue.
"The wind’s dropping," Mayday murmured, half-asleep. His head was still resting on Crosshair’s shoulder, but he made no move to get up. He sounded hollow, as if the cold had finally reached his core and stayed there. "The Lieutenant should wake up soon. He'll want his inventory and the first lot of crates moved."
Crosshair opened his eyes, but his body remained rigid. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a sharp contrast to the slow, fading pulse of the man leaning against him. He couldn't let a loyal soldier like Mayday work himself to death as he clearly intended to.
"He can have his stupid crates," Crosshair said. His voice was lower than usual, tight with a tension he couldn't quite mask. "We’re getting off this ball of ice."
Mayday didn't flinch. He didn't even look up. He just let out a small, tired huff that might have been a laugh if he had the energy for it. "Leaving? In what? A body bag?" He finally pulled away, his eyes glazed and distant. "The mission isn't over, Sniper. There’s nowhere to go but the snow."
Crosshair felt his throat tighten. He looked toward the closed warehouse door, then back at the Commander. His hand hovered near his rifle—not to use it, but because he didn't know what else to hold onto. He had nothing to worry between his teeth either; his last toothpick had been reduced to splinters hours ago.
"Not to the Empire," Crosshair whispered. The word Empire felt heavy, dangerous. He watched Mayday’s face for any sign of a flicker—the flare of a control chip, the spark of a loyalist—half-expecting the older clone to reach for his sidearm. “I know others... They left...”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mayday just stared at the dead heater, his expression showing a flicker of surprised recognition. "Defectors," he repeated, the word sounding flat in his mouth. "Never took you for the treasonous type, Sniper."
Crosshair’s fingers twitched against the cold metal of his gear. "Maybe I’m tired of us being regarded as used equipment, no better than seppie clankers—at least droids get a memory wipe, meanwhile we're expected to just... stop."
There was a heavy silence between them, the truth of Crosshair's words weighing almost painfully on them both.
"Doesn't matter if we're tired," Mayday eventually rasped, his gaze hauntingly vacant. "The mission isn't over, at least not for me. The raiders have a camp about a quarter rotation out on foot towards the mountains. You can probably steal a shuttle off them, if they have one. I'll tell Nolan you slipped on the ice and cracked your head open."
"I'm not leaving you here," Crosshair said, his voice cracking with a desperate, uncharacteristic heat. "If we stay, we're just equipment waiting to be scrapped. If we go... maybe we can just... exist."
Mayday finally met his gaze. He didn't look hopeful. He looked like a man who had already accepted his death and was simply deciding which version of it he preferred.
"This Empire... they're not like the Republic. If they catch us, the court martial won't be a life sentence to maintenance and cleanup on Kamino. It'll be a firing squad," Mayday whispered. Crosshair's resolve only grew steelier.
“Then I guess we'll just have to make sure there's no one left here to report us missing.”
The heavy thud of the shuttle ramp hitting the permafrost echoed through the warehouse from the yard. The two clones shared one last long look, Mayday finally letting out a sigh.
“Beats freezing to death I guess.” Crosshair almost smiled as the other relented, both donning their helmets and making their way out into the tundra together.
Lieutenant Nolan was waiting, his two stormtroopers already beginning to load the crates. It looked as if one had been knocked over by the inexperienced trooper duo, a collection of pristine white ugly helmets spilling out into the snow- new armor, Crosshair realised, for the Empires new army.
Nolan's sneer was instantaneous as he spotted them exiting the warehouse, the crisp cleanliness of his uniform a stark insult to the grime and decay around him.
"The cargo should be at the ramp by now," Nolan barked. He looked at Mayday, who was practically swaying on his feet against the mild wind. "Where is the inventory?"
Mayday obediently held out a pad, the cracked screen frosted over.
"The Commander is in respiratory failure," Crosshair bit out. He was trembling now—not from the cold, but from the white-hot anger inspired within him by Nolan's disregard. "He needs medical attention. Now."
Nolan didn't even look at Mayday. He glanced at the datapad, tapping a key with clinical indifference. "This outpost's unit is a loss. I am not wasting ship resources on a faulty model." Nolan finally looked up, his eyes cold and empty. "He is an old clone, hardly worth the cost of a medpac. If he expires, he expires. Load the crates, CT-9904. That is an order."
Nolan turned his back, dismissal in every line of his posture.
Crosshair’s vision tunnelled. Any apprehension that had gripped him that morning snapped into a cold, jagged clarity. He raised his rifle. A single, clinical bolt to the spine followed. The snow seemed to swallow the sound of the shot as Nolan collapsed into the permafrost without a word.
Before the two stormtroopers had even realised where the shot had come from, Crosshair fired twice more. His hands didn't shake. He didn't look at the bodies or the armor Maydays entire squad had died for.
"Come on," Crosshair commanded, his voice raw. He hoisted Mayday’s arm over his shoulder, bracing for the weight. "We're going."
Part 3
The heat of the shuttle was an assault. After the dry, bone-deep freeze of Barton IV, the recycled air felt thick and humid. Crosshair half-dragged, half-carried Mayday up the ramp, his boots skidding slightly on the slick durasteel.
He dumped the Commander into the navigator's chair, the older clone’s head lolling back as he fought for air. The sudden change in climate seemed to have exasibated his condition. Crosshair didn't stop to catch his own breath; he slammed the seal on the ramp and threw himself into the pilot’s seat. His hands, still stiff from the cold, flew over the controls with a frantic, uncharacteristic lack of grace.
The Rho-class shuttle roared to life. As the ship cleared the atmosphere, the oppressive white of Barton IV fell away, replaced by the endless, uncaring black of space. Crosshair didn't engage the hyperdrive immediately. He had to vanish first. He scrubbed the ship’s transponder codes—a trick Tech had taught him years ago for "off-the-grid" scouting—and set a random course into the Outer Rim.
With the ship on a temporary heading, Crosshair knelt beside Mayday. The Commander’s face was a waxen yellow, his lips tinged with blue. Crosshair ripped open a standard-issue Imperial med-kit, but it was pathetic—a few bandages, a stim-shot, and no bacta.
"Stay with me," Crosshair hissed, his voice cracking. He cracked a stim and jammed it into Mayday’s thigh.
Mayday’s eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. He let out a choked, wet sound. "Cross...?"
"I'm here. We're off-planet." Mayday’s hand fumbled, grabbing Crosshair’s forearm with surprising strength.
“Off-planet?”
"Yep," Crosshair assured, holding the older veterans shaking a hand for a moment till the shivers died down and his eyes looked less frantic. Mayday was still clearly confused, but he nodded and leaned his head back against the seat, letting his grip on the other go so he could stand and moved to the comms array.
Crosshairs fingers hovered over the keys. He had spent months trying to forget this frequency, trying to bury the ghosts of the brothers he had turned his back on, truly believing that it had been for the best.
He didn't use a voice transmission. It was too risky. Instead, he typed out a string of encrypted code sent out through a sequence less than a handful of people in the galaxy would recognise.
099-04. 73-4. EMERGENCY EXTRACTION. MEDICAL REQUIRED. COORDINATES ENCLOSED.
He hit send. Then he waited. The silence of the cockpit was deafening, broken only by the hum of the engines in hyperspace and the ragged, terrifying rattle of Mayday's breath.
It was just over a half hour before there was the ping from coms- a single coordinate. Crosshair checked the shuttles systems and found that although it would take every last bit of fuel they had to get there, they would make it. He could only hope his brothers were waiting at the other end and they wouldn't be left stranded in the middle of nowhere. He doubted Mayday would be too impressed waking up to such a situation.
Crosshair dropped them out of hyperspace, set the new coordinates, and sat. The silence of the cockpit was heavy, save for the rhythmic, wet whistle of Mayday’s breathing.
With the ship on autopilot, Crosshair turned his chair. Mayday looked small in the oversized navigator’s seat, his head lolling to the side. The stim had given him a temporary burst of clarity, but now he was sinking back into the exhaustion of a year-long fight. His beard was still matted with salt and Barton frost, and even in sleep, his brow was furrowed in a permanent wince.
Crosshair leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He found himself tracing the lines of Mayday’s face—the deep-set exhaustion, the stubborn set of his jaw, and the way the cockpit’s blue light caught the silver in his beard. He looked like the future none of them were supposed to have: old, tired, and still breathing.
Mayday’s eyes fluttered open just a crack. He didn't move, but a ghost of a smirk touched his pale lips.
"Something on my face again, Sniper... or are you just admiring the view?" he rasped, the callback to the warehouse hanging between them like a lifeline.
Crosshair didn't look away this time. He didn't snap back with a sarcastic remark. He just let the silence settle, his gaze softening in a way that would have horrified the Empire.
"The view's an improvement over the ice," Crosshair said quietly.
Mayday let out a weak huff of a laugh that ended in a wince.
"Liar. I look like a scrapped hull."
"Maybe," Crosshair murmured. "But your still space worthy."
He reached out, his gloved fingers briefly hovering over Mayday’s hand before he pulled back, the old habit of distance still hard to break. "Rest. We’re almost there."
“Yes sir.” Mayday quipped back, bringing a ghost of a smile to Crosshair's usual scowl.
Hours later, the shuttle dropped out of hyperspace in the shadow of a gas giant. A lone, familiar ship sat waiting: the Havoc Marauder.
"Identify yourself," a voice crackled over the comms. It was Tech—clinical, fast, and wary.
Crosshair took a breath, his thumb hovering over the transmit button. "It's me," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I have a man down. He’s... one of us. Please."
The silence on the other end lasted an eternity. Then, Hunter’s voice broke through—low, dangerous, and vibrating with a decade of shared history.
"Land on the asteroid at the two-o'clock position. We’ll meet you on the surface. If you’re followed, Crosshair... we won't be there."
“Understood.”
The shuttle touched down on the jagged rock, its landing struts groaning. The Marauder landed fifty meters away, its ramp already lowering.
Crosshair stood at the top of the Rho-class ramp, his hands empty and held away from his sides- unarmed. He watched the four figures emerge from the Marauder. Hunter had his hand on his knife; Tech was scanning the shuttle for trackers; Wrecker looked torn between a shout and a punch. And Omega. She was standing slightly in front of them, her eyes wide, searching Crosshair’s face for the brother she had refused to give up on.
"Where's the rest of your squad?" Hunter called out, his voice echoing through the comm-links in their helmets.
"There is no squad," Crosshair replied. He stepped back, gesturing into the dim red light of the shuttle hold. "Just me and a reg. He needs medical attention." They didn't seem convinced, all but Omega, who turned her big pleading eyes up to Hunter. She'd grown since Crosshair had last seen her, but the damn kid still clearly had Hunter wrapped around her finger because he folded in seconds. Crosshair waited for the nod from his old squad leader before turning back and dissapearing into the ship, returning to maydays side and hoisting the half conscious man up. The older clone groaned, his weight making Crosshair stumble. As they emerged into the light together—the dark-armored Imperial sniper supporting the battered, bandaged veteran—the tension among the Batch didn't vanish, but it shifted into a stunned, heavy silence.
"Who's that?" Wrecker blurted out, his voice cracking the stillness. Clearly he hadn't been expecting someone none of the rest of them knew. Crosshair didn't bother to reply, instead meeting Hunter’s eyes with a raw intensity. "Just help him. Please."
Hunter nodded to Tech and in the next moment the airlock of the Havoc Marauder hissed open, and the sterile, familiar scent of the ship hit Crosshair like a memory he hadn't asked for. He was still half-carrying Mayday, whose breathing had become a wet, terrifying gargle.
"Med-bunk." Tech commanded with some urgency, already bypass-coding the diagnostic sensors.
Wrecker stepped forward, his massive hands reaching out.
"I got him, Crosshair."
For a split second, Crosshair’s grip tightened on Mayday’s scavenged pauldrons. His eyes flashed with a feral, protective instinct—the look of a man who expected a fight. But then he looked at Wrecker’s face, saw the genuine worry there, and let go. He watched as Wrecker easily hoisted the Commander, carrying him as if he weighed nothing.
Crosshair stood in the center of the hold, his arms suddenly feeling unnervingly light. He didn't know where to put his hands, watching worriedly as Wrecker rushed Mayday deeper into the ship.
“He's gonna be okay.” Omega's quiet voice suddenly came reassuringly from beside him. She smiled gently when he met her gaze, shockingly taking his limp hand in her own smaller hand. He didn't pull away, allowing her to lead him into the ship.
Part 4
The journey was awkwardly silent, a heavy contrast to the noisy trips between missions the squad used to share. While Tech and Omega worked over Mayday in the med-bay—pumping him full of industrial-grade antibiotics and draining the fluid from his lungs—Crosshair sat on the floor outside the curtain. He refused a bedroll. He refused food. He just sat, his back against the cold durasteel, staring at the far bulkhead as if he could see through the ship and into the hyperspace beyond.
The Marauder hummed with an energy that Crosshair no longer felt a part of. The ship had changed. There were colorful drawings tucked into the seams of the walls, a pile of mismatched gear in the corner that didn't belong to any regulation kit, and the faint, lingering smell of something sweet. Nothing was quite where he remembered it being.
Wrecker had come over to check on him at one point while Crosshair had been standing with his back against the wall. He had hovered for a moment, looking like a thermal detonator about to go off, before pulling Crosshair into a bone-crushing, awkward hug. "Glad you're back, Cross," he’d rumbled, patting him so hard his teeth rattled. Before he retreated back to the cockpit he'd handed Crosshair a small packet of the snipers old toothpicks. He'd had to fight not to tear up, but in spite of it all he still felt completely out of place. Just like their old barracks on Kamino, this place no longer felt like home. He was like a jagged piece of a puzzle that had already been finished without him.
Later Omega had stepped out, wiping blue antiseptic from her hands. She sat down across from him, a mimicry of his own posture with one leg stretched out and her arm resting on her other knee.
"Tech says he's stable," she whispered. "He's a fighter. He’ll make it."
Crosshair shifted his gaze to her. She looked so much older, her face beginning to lose the roundness of childhood and gaining the sharp, observant lines of a cadet. She looked an aweful lot like he remember Tech had years ago.
"He’s a stubborn old soldier," Crosshair rasped, his voice still sounding like it had been scraped raw by Barton’s wind.
"He is your friend." Omega pointed out.
Crosshair didn't argue. He just huffed a surprised, dry laugh at the girl's quick wit. In the next moment, he closed his eyes, the adrenaline crash finally catching up with him now that he knew Mayday would be alright. He didn't fall asleep; he simply stopped existing for a few hours, anchored only by the steady, mechanical beep-beep-beep of Mayday’s heart monitor on the other side of the curtain.
Tech eventually emerged from the med-bay, his goggles pushed up. "The Commander’s inhibitor chip has been successfully suppressed. It was... degraded," Tech noted, his voice losing some of it's usual clinical detachment. "Likely due to the environmental stressors. It was barely functional, yet he stayed."
"He stayed because he had a job to do," Crosshair muttered, his hand twitching toward his empty holster.
"And now his job is to survive," Tech replied. "As is yours."
The rest of the transition to a place he heard them call 'Pabu' was a blur of hyperspace and hushed conversations. By the time they touched down, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the cliffs in shades of amber and violet. The air didn't bite; it caressed, smelling of salt and blooming flowers. To a man who had spent the last couple rotations expecting to die in the dark, the beauty of the island was almost offensive.
Wrecker and Hunter carried Mayday out on a repulsor-stretcher. The Commander was awake, but barely. He squinted against the light, his eyes moving from the high arch of the island's peaks to the blooming trees.
"Where...?" Mayday croaked.
Crosshair walked beside the stretcher, his hand resting briefly on the other’s shoulder. It was the only way to ground himself—to remind himself that this wasn't a fever dream brought on by hypothermia.
"I told you," Crosshair said, his voice finally steadying. "Outside the ledger."
Mayday looked at Crosshair, then at the ragtag group of "defective" clones around him—brothers who looked not quite exactly like him and moved with a freedom he’d never known. He let out a long, shaky breath that didn't rattle quite as much as it had yesterday.
"You did it, Sniper," Mayday whispered, his fingers twitching toward Crosshair’s. "You actually did it."
Crosshair didn't say anything. He just watched the kaleidoscope sky reflect in the old reg’s brown eyes, and finally—just for a second—his shoulders lost their tension. The war was over. The ice was gone. At least for now, they had survived.
Part 5
The first morning on Pabu didn't taste like frost. It tasted like salt and woodsmoke.
Crosshair woke slowly, disoriented by the lack of a metal bulkhead or the biting chill of Barton IV. He was pressed close to Mayday on the single bed, his arm draped across the Commander’s chest. He didn't care that the others had given him a strange, wary look when he’d refused to leave Mayday's side the night before; he simply needed to know that Mayday was still warm, still breathing.
Mayday shifted, a low groan vibrating in his chest as his eyes blinked open. He looked at the sunlight streaming through the window, then at Crosshair. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Mayday reached up, his hand slightly shaky but warm, and hooked his fingers firmly behind Crosshair’s neck. He pulled him down until their foreheads gently crashed together.
It wasn't just a touch; it was an anchor. For Crosshair, the sensation was overwhelming. He had spent his life avoiding the regs and their tactile, pack-mentality brotherhood, and even with his own squad, he had always been the one to pull away first. But this was different. This wasn't a soldier's greeting. It was too intimate.
Crosshair’s eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as he felt the thrum of Mayday’s pulse through their touching skin. It was the first time he had ever let himself be truly held, and the realization that he wanted it—that he needed this man more than he needed his rifle—was a terrifying, beautiful revelation. They stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air until the world outside became impossible to ignore.
Omega brought them both a cup of Caf to start their day, her footsteps light on the floorboards. She offered a small, knowing smile that Crosshair pointedly ignored, though he took the cup. She had given up her room for Mayday—the only proper bed in the house—and was sleeping on a bedroll in the main room with the others.
Now, Crosshair sat in a chair by the open window. On the table before him lay his armor. He had spent the last hour cleaning it—a rhythmic, obsessive habit. He polished the shoulder pauldrons until the dark finish gleamed, but no matter how hard he rubbed, he could still see the ghost of Barton IV in the scratches.
A heavy shadow fell across the entryway. Wrecker clumped into the room, holding two large bundles of folded fabric. "Hunter says we’re heading down to the lower village for real food," Wrecker rumbled, looking at Crosshair’s high-collared Imperial blacks. "You can't go out there looking like a trooper's shadow."
Crosshair didn't look up. "It’s my uniform, Wrecker."
"Don't need a uniform here," Wrecker countered, dropping the first bundle on the table. "Besides, it’s stiff. Phee found these."
Wrecker turned to the bed, laying a second bundle of ochre and tan linens at Mayday’s feet. "Glad you made it, Commander," Wrecker said with a nod. He lingered for a moment longer, looking at the two of them with a strange, quiet expression—observing the way Crosshair sat just close enough to reach the bed—before heading back to the kitchen.
Crosshair looked at the clothes—earthy grey, like the Pabu cliffs. Slowly, he began to unfasten the seals of his armor. When he stood in just his undershirt, the warm island air hit his skin. He shivered from the sudden, terrifying lightness of it. He reached for the new clothes. The fabric was coarse but breathable, smelling of sun-dried grass.
"Cross,"Mayday’s voice was a low rasp. He was watching from the bed, his dark eyes tired but clear. He looked at the pile of black armor Crosshair had discarded, then at the tan linens Wrecker had left for him. "Help me up?" Mayday murmured.
Crosshair moved to his side, his hands—now bare of their tactical gloves—supporting Mayday’s weight as the older clone sat on the edge of the bed. Mayday reached for the ochre tunic, running his scarred fingers over the fabric.
"No more tan bandages," Mayday whispered, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
Crosshair watched as Mayday slowly, painfully, pulled the soft shirt over his head, replacing the grit-stained rags of Barton IV with the colors of the island. Crosshair followed suit, pulling on the grey tunic and the dark, loose trousers. They dressed in silence, replacing the grit-stained rags of Barton IV with the colors of the island. Finally, standing there together, Mayday leaned back against the wall to look at him from head to toe.
"You look different," he noted, an appreciative gleam to his gaze.
Crosshair adjusted his sleeves, feeling raw without his gear. "I look like a civilian."
Mayday looked at the discarded Imperial chest plate. "No," he said. "You look free."
The transition to the main room was an exercise in sensory overload. The house was loud—Wrecker was laughing at something Omega said, and Tech was providing a rapid-fire explanation of Pabu’s irrigation system to the young girl. Hunter was standing by the stove, his posture relaxed, but his eyes tracked Crosshair the moment he emerged.
Crosshair didn't join them. He hovered by the doorframe as Mayday took their dirty cups over to the sink, his hands twitching for a weapon or a toothpick that wasn't there. He felt like an intruder in a well-rehearsed play.
"Scanning in progress!" a high-pitched, mechanical voice chirped.
AZI-3 floated over to them, his servos whirring. He drifted directly toward Mayday, his medical sensors glowing blue. "Commander Mayday, your pulmonary readings indicate a 42% improvement since arrival, though your interstitial scarring remains a concern. I must insist on a daily regimen of rhythmic breathing and localized heat therapy."
Mayday groaned, batting at the droid's scanner. "I've had enough heat therapy for one lifetime, droid."
"I am a highly sophisticated medical model, not merely a 'droid,'" AZI countered, pivoting toward Crosshair. "And you, CT-9904, show signs of elevated cortisol and sleep deprivation. I recommend a sedative and a—"
"Back off," Crosshair hissed, his voice like a snapping wire.
The room went quiet. The tension was thick, a reminder of the months of hostility and the cold distance Crosshair had maintained. Wrecker paused mid-bite of a fruit, looking between them.
Mayday stepped into the gap. He placed a steadying hand on Crosshair’s shoulder—a touch that was possessive and grounding. "He’s fine, AZI. Go calibrate something."
As the droid floated away, muttering about biological stubbornness, Mayday leaned closer to Crosshair. The rest of the Batch pretended not to watch with hushed fascination. They had never seen anyone dare to touch Crosshair so casually.
"Sit down, Cross," Mayday whispered, loud enough for only Crosshair to hear. "They're your brothers, not the enemy."
"Not anymore," Crosshair muttered back, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Mayday sighed and gently pulled him toward the small balcony outside the room, away from the prying eyes of the squad. The sea breeze was cool, and the sound of the waves provided a buffer. Mayday leaned against the railing, looking out at the horizon before turning back to Crosshair.
"Look, I don't know exactly what happened between you and your squad, and you don't need to tell me,” Mayday said, “but they clearly want you here, so unless they tried killing you without reason or something I think you should think about settling down here.” Crosshair cringed rather obviously. Mayday reached out, grabbing Crosshair’s chin and forcing him to look up. The contact was startlingly warm, a sharp contrast to the cool sea breeze. Crosshair’s breath hitched, trapped in the intensity of Mayday’s dark, steady gaze.
"I'm a soldier, Mayday," Crosshair whispered, the admission sounding like a confession. "Without a rifle, without a mission... I don't know what I am."
"You're a man," Mayday replied softly. "And for the first time in your life, you get to decide what kind."
“Will you stay?” Crosshair asked, the question small and raw, stripped of all his usual barbs.
Mayday gave a small, tired smile, his thumb brushing over Crosshair's cheek. “As long as you do, Sniper.”
Part 6
Weeks passed in this strange new domesticity, the salt air and Pabu’s steady warmth doing more for Mayday than the med-droids ever could, not that AZI didn't try. The house the batch had been given to live in became a crowded, chaotic home. At first, the men of the Batch were wary of the new reg in their midst, but Mayday’s dry wit and obvious devotion to Crosshair made it hard to outright dislike him. Even Phee had developed a fondness for the mans deadpan humor.
The shift in Crosshair was the most unnerving part. He was still himself—quiet, observant, and prone to brooding—but he was different. Softer almost. He moved with less of the jagged, predatory sharp-edges that had defined him since Kamino. Of all the squad, he had always been the most prickly and independent, but now he did nothing without the reg he'd somehow befriended all on his own.
Hunter struggled with the change the most. He spent his days watching the two of them from the shadows. After so long mourning Crosshair, then fighting him, then trying to save him, seeing Crosshair so loyal to a stranger felt like an insult.
"We should contact Rex about picking up Mayday.” Hunter muttered to Tech afternoon while they cleaned old gear, watching Crosshair and Mayday sitting some distance away under a tree. Tech froze momentarily in his tracks.
“I do not believe Crosshair would be too happy about that.”
“The reg doesn't belong here. He’s not one of us," Hunter insisted, but Tech didn't look up from his datapad. "Mathematically, he is exactly like us in every way that matters. He is a soldier without a war. And more importantly, he provides a stabilizing frequency for Crosshair that we currently cannot replicate."
“There's just something not right about him.” Hunter insisted.
"I imagine that is because you are experiencing a feeling somewhat similar to what Crosshair did when Omega first joined our group.” Tech noted clinically. "You are experiencing a fear of displacement."
“I just don't want to lose him again, Tech," Hunter confessed, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper.
"Then perhaps," Tech said, finally meeting Hunter's eyes, "you should stop unconsciously alienating someone he seems to have become rather attached to."
The tension Hunter felt nearly snapped during a visit from Echo. They were running a training exercise for Omega, as well as to keep their own skills from waning. Echo stood beside him watching with interest as the clone who had supposedly 'tamed' Crosshair sat on the sidelines, an arm's length from the Sniper.
Crosshair barely missed a long-range shot—a freak gust of wind, or perhaps a finger cramp. Hunter saw the moment he began to spiral, his jaw tightening into that old, cold self-loathing. Hunter was about to walk over to go tell the other to take a break, but Mayday was already on his feet.
He didn't offer a pep talk; he just stepped into Crosshair’s space, took the rifle right out of his hands, and set it aside. It was a gesture of absolute authority and absolute trust. He pulled Crosshair closer by the back of the neck, murmuring something low. Hunter stiffened, expecting a snarl, but to both of the watching men's shock, Crosshair didn't lash out. Instead, his shoulders dropped as he let out a long, shuddering sigh, accepting the comfort and leaning his forehead into the reg's shoulder.
"He doesn't even look at us for more than five seconds," Hunter muttered to Echo in disbelief "but he lets that reg take his weapon and haul him around by the neck?"
"It's good" Echo insisted, tho Hunter looked at him as though he's grown a second head. "Crosshair doesn't feel like he belongs here yet, but at least he trusts Mayday’s word that he does."
That afternoon, while the Batch was crowded around the table for dinner, Wrecker stopped mid-bite. He watched as Mayday, deep in a conversation with Echo about his and Rex's crusades, casually hooked a booted leg around Crosshair’s calf under the table, essentially forcing him to be smooshed against him from ankle to shoulder. Crosshair didn't pull away; he simply shifted his weight, leaning into the warmth of Mayday's side as if it were the most natural thing in the galaxy.
"Is it just me," Wrecker whispered loudly to Omega, "or is Crosshair... less stabby lately?"
"He’s happy," Omega explained simply. Hunter’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Happy. That was a word he hadn't associated with Crosshair in years.
That evening he watched closely as Crosshair stood out on the balcony under the stars, watching the flickering lights closely as if expecting a star-cruiser to appear. Mayday came to lean against the railing beside him, the two sharing their warmth in the cool evening air.
"You're brooding again, Cross," Mayday said. He reached out, his hand sliding over Crosshair’s neck, fingers tangling in the short, silver hair. It was a slow, possessive movement, pulling the snipers fixed gaze away from the sky. He pulled Crosshair in, pressing their foreheads together.
Hunter stood frozen at the sight. He saw the way Crosshair’s eyes closed, the way his hands gripped Mayday’s forearms with a desperate, quiet devotion.
It clicked.
This wasn't a new squad leader. Myday wasn't their replacement. This was something else entirely—something none of them had ever sought for themselves. Crosshair wasn't choosing a reg over his family; he had choosen a partner.
"The missions over," Mayday whispered. "We made it. They're not coming. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. You can stop looking for the exit."
Crosshair let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for years, leaning his weight fully into Mayday. In the soft starlight, the jagged, broken parts of him finally seemed to fit together.
Mayday caught Hunter’s gaze over Crosshair’s shoulder and gave a small, reassuring smile. He’s not going anywhere, the look said.
Hunter felt the last of the tension leave his chest. Finally, he turned his focus from the two and instead went to help Wrecker with the dishes, all of them breathing easy at last.
Epilogue
The sun was beginning to dip below the Pabu horizon, turning the sea into a sheet of liquid copper. On the communal terrace, the usual evening chaos of the Batch was in full swing: Wrecker was loudly challenging Omega to a game of strategy he was destined to lose, and Tech was debating the structural integrity of the local pier with a group of bemused fishers.
Crosshair sat on the edge of the stone wall, his boots dangling over the precipice. He wasn't cleaning a rifle. Instead, his hands were busy carving a small piece of driftwood with a vibro-blade—a slow, meditative task that lacked the urgency of war.
A familiar, heavy footfall sounded behind him. Mayday eased himself down onto the bench nearby, moving with a grace that no longer required a cane or a shoulder to lean on. He wore a simple linen shirt the color of the sunset, his grey-streaked beard trimmed and his eyes clear of the Barton fever.
"You're getting better at that," Mayday noted, nodding toward the wood. "Though if you’re trying to carve a loth-cat, it looks more like a very angry rock."
Crosshair’s lip quirked—a genuine, effortless ghost of a smile. "It’s a vulture. From the depot."
Mayday grew quiet for a moment, the memory of the ice passing between them like a cold draft. But then he reached out, resting his hand on Crosshair’s nape. His thumb traced the edge of the sniper's hairline, a touch that was now as vital as oxygen.
"The birds here are prettier," Mayday said softly.
"They're louder," Crosshair countered, though he leaned back into the touch, closing his eyes.
From the doorway, Hunter watched them. He didn't linger in the shadows this time. He stepped out onto the terrace, carrying two plates of fruit and flatbread. He walked over and set one down between the two clones.
"Wrecker’s going to eat the rest if you don't move fast," Hunter said. He stayed for a beat, his hand lingering on the back of the bench. He caught Mayday’s eye and gave a sharp, respectful nod—the silent salute of one leader recognizing another.
"Thanks, Hunter," Mayday replied, his voice warm.
As Hunter headed back to the noise of the family, Crosshair opened his eyes and looked at the plate, then at the man beside him. The silence between them wasn't the hollow, terrifying silence of the tundra anymore. It was full—of the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt, and the steady, rhythmic pulse of two men who were finally, undeniably, home.
Mayday picked up a piece of fruit and offered it to him. "Eat, Sniper. We’ve got a long day of doing absolutely nothing tomorrow."
Crosshair took it, his fingers brushing Mayday’s, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel the need to look over his shoulder. The horizon was empty of Empire, and the only thing waiting for him was the morning.