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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 6 months

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Welcome to the Outpost: Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Self Surgery

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch, Additional Clone Troopers Word Count: ~1730 Warnings: Injury Description Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: The raiders have made it through the perimeter and Commander Mayday has been injured. With no response to their request for medical aid to be sent, he tends to his own wounds and rallies his men to continue protecting the base.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen

“Come in command. This is Barton IV Depot, requesting urgent assistance.”

“Give it up, Veetch.” Mayday grinned around the hitch of pain in his words. “They’re not answering.”

The young clone trooper looked up from the console with a worried frown. “We have to keep trying, sir.”

Mayday eased himself forwards from his reclined position, grunting in pain as his abdomen creased around blood-stained bandages. “Get me the medkit.”

“There’s nothing in there that will help,” said Veetch, even as he obeyed. He watched incredulously as his commander rooted around in the small kit for anything he could use to treat the injury that kept seeping through repeated layers of bandaging.

“Bring the heater closer. I don’t want to freeze to death whilst I’m trying to patch myself up.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Veetch, grabbing Mayday’s hands to stop him as he went to unfasten the bandages. “You’ll bleed out.”

Mayday levelled a calm look at the young trooper, letting him hold his wrists but wearing him down with the strength of his gaze. “I’m bleeding out anyway. I need to stitch this wound.”

“But the Empire will send a medical droid if we can just contact them-”

“Not in time to do anything other than verify cause of death,” said Mayday bluntly. “Veetch. Heater.”

Veetch ran to do as he was bid, wide-eyed with concern. Mayday extracted what he needed from the kit – needle and thread, archaic, stored there only for dire emergencies when other supplies had run out. Which, after six months stationed on the icy planet, they had.

Not that their med-kit had been exhaustively stocked to begin with. It had been provisioned for a storage facility – essentially what the outpost was – not for a squad engaged in frequent skirmishes with the locals. Requests for replenishment had gone unanswered.

Mayday dragged himself to his feet, wincing, and staggered to the com console. He switched from long-range to local, leaning heavily against the equipment as he opened the channel.

“Hexx, how’s it going out there?”

“Good to hear your voice, Commander.”

“Report.”

The heater scraped against the floor as Veetch hauled it over, hovering anxiously beside his commander. Mayday sank onto a chair and leaned back, peeling away the soaked bandages round his middle as he listened to Hexx’s run-down.

“Raiders are attacking in waves. We can’t pursue them too far past the perimeter, or they strike from another angle. Defences are holding though.”

“Casualties?” Mayday’s voice was a hiss through gritted teeth as the final layer dropped away to reveal the deep laceration to his abdomen.

Hexx’s dry chuckle echoed through the com. “Just you, sir.”

Mayday gave a humourless grin. “Let’s try and keep it that way.”

He glanced at Veetch, who already had a fresh bandage in his hands. “Alright, trooper, you sure you can handle this?”

Veetch’s gaze was riveted on the gash to Mayday’s stomach, edges of the skin pulling back to reveal the flesh behind, slick with lazily pulsing blood. With effort he wrenched his attention away and looked into Mayday’s level brown gaze.

“Dene was our medic, sir. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve been patched up after battle enough times in my life,” said Mayday grimly, taking up the needle and positioning it beside the slowly pulsing gash across his stomach. “I think I can have a go at doing it myself.”

Veetch watched in pale determination as the steel instrument pierced the ragged flesh at the edge of the wound, thread drawing through and quickly soaking red with the commander’s blood. Sweat beaded on Mayday’s forehead as he worked, drawing the edges of the wound together until the flow of blood slowed to a beading trickle.

When Mayday’s head fell back, gasping in pain and exhaustion, Veetch crouched at his side to tie off the stitches and wipe blood from his skin before tightly wrapping the wound in a fresh bandage. The discarded, bloodstained rags on the ground beside him were pushed out the way as he pulled the heater as close as he could to his commander.

“Good lad,” breathed Mayday shallowly, watching Veetch through slitted eyes.

Veetch returned to the com console, opening the channel again.

“Report, Hexx,” he said in a voice that only shook a little.

“They’re inside the perimeter. We could use your help if the Commander can spare you.”

Mayday nodded. “Go help them.”

Veetch cast him a worried look, but his nod was firm and then he was gone, pulling his bucket on as he let himself out into the night.

With a tired groan Mayday pushed to his feet, steadying himself against the console before bending very carefully to retrieve his discarded top armour. The movement pulled at the stitches uncomfortably and he clamped a hand against the bandages, fingers clawed against his skin as he grimaced in pain.

Taking a deep breath he straightened, lifting his cuirass and heaving it onto the chair he had vacated. He gingerly pulled his top blacks down from around his shoulders to cover his torso, then began to clip his armour back into place.

The mountain cold found every gap between his armour as he crossed to the watch-tower. In other circumstances it might have been soothing on his injuries, but now all it did was highlight the contrast with the heat of his wound and remind him how ill-equipped they were to fight in these conditions.

A rifle muzzle greeted him as he ascended the tower, until Atlas realised who it was and hauled his Commander the rest of the way to the platform.

“Sure you should be out here, sir?” he asked, training his rifle back on the battle. A well-placed shot startled a pair of raiders from cover, where they ran into the path of Recon’s waiting blaster-fire.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” quipped Mayday drily, trying not to let pain leach into his voice. He scanned the depot with a pair of binoculars. “Over there. Three of them in the shadow of the storage unit. Looks like they have explosive charges.”

“On it.” Atlas swung his rifle to the location Mayday had marked, ready to eliminate the threat.

For over an hour the fight ranged back and forth, raiders striking and then melding back into shadow and snow, the clone troopers pressed from all sides to defend the base. The perimeter sensors worked intermittently to warn them of enemies nearing. Mayday ordered Atlas down to back up the others on the ground, taking control of the rifle in the tower.

It wasn’t clear at what point they routed the attackers. The skirmishes dwindled in frequency, then ceased. The clone troopers were still crouched in cover, shivering against the bitter cold, watchful and alert for the next attack the come in.

When enough time had passed to feel confident the assault was over, Mayday came down from the tower.

Axis and Helix were closest to him, and quick to rush to support him. He brushed off their concern, pulling himself to his full height as his ragged squad of troopers gathered around him, watchful and waiting for his orders.

“You did well, boys,” he praised, looking at each of them in turn. Snow-dashed helmets watched back, visors dark, but despite the snow and low light he knew each and every one of them individually. “You held the depot whilst I was incapacitated. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

“Veetch says the Empire aren’t answering comms,” said Ferox bluntly.

Mayday took a deep breath. “I know what you’re all thinking. We’re assigned to the shebs-end of nowhere, and relief ships are… infrequent.” He paused, letting his gaze rake over them again. “What we’re doing here is important. The Empire needs us to keep this depot secure until these supplies are needed. It may be a long assignment. But I know that each and every one of you is a good soldier, and we can handle it.”

The line of troopers shuffled, glancing at each other. Mayday grimaced inside his helmet, glad his expression was hidden. After six months his troopers were losing morale, worn down by the deaths of Geo and Dene and the repeated equipment failures that hadn’t been addressed.

“We may be undersupplied. We’ve already lost brothers. But we won’t let this planet beat us; not the weather, not the raiders. Hear me?”

A gruff chorus of affirmatives.

“You are proud soldiers of the Empire. Yes, we were struck a blow today.” He let his hand go to his side for emphasis. “But no matter how they knock us down, we will rise again. We need to show the Empire we are resilient… prove that we can be trusted with even the most difficult assignments.”

The clustered troopers gave another series of more-or-less positive noises. Less, Mayday thought, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that now.

“Clear up out here, and check that all the buildings are still secure. Veetch, Telmer, bring any of the raider’s bodies into cover for now. We’ll strip them of anything we can use… cold-weather gear in particular.”

“We could strip them where they lay and leave them for the vultures,” said Telmer pessimistically.

Mayday shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of attracting more of those scavengers if I can help it.” He thought of the fierce creatures he watched circling the depot on a daily basis and shuddered. “Alright, everyone. Get to it.”

Hexx fell into step beside Mayday as they headed back to the main building. He didn’t try and offer his support. Mayday wouldn’t take it until he was out of sight of his men.

“All that stuff about the Empire being proud of us,” he said quietly, on their private com channel. “You didn’t believe a word of it.”

Mayday snorted. “Not at all. But they needed to hear it.”

“Raiders are getting bolder.”

“Don’t I know it,” grunted Mayday, fingering his bandaged stomach.

Hexx huffed a grim laugh. “Barton IV is the worst karking assignment in the galaxy.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mayday quietly. “But we’re going to make the best of it. Rise above it, and prove we’re good soldiers. Show the Empire that us clones aren’t going anywhere.” He took a deep breath, and now he looped an arm round Hexx’s shoulder for support. “Don’t worry, Hexx. It’ll come right in the end.”

Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle

Welcome to Angstpril!

This writing project is a collaboration between myself, @the-little-moment and @kybercrystals94 to bring you a fabulous series of angst-based Bad Batch fanfiction. We've shared the prompts between us so don't forget to check all of our blogs to catch the whole month's worth of stories!

My series of 10 stories will focus on Clone Commander Mayday and the Barton IV Outpost. Stay tuned to follow Mayday's journey to the bitter end...

Don't forget to check out @the-little-moment's stories:- Day 1 - Homesick Day 4 - Longing

And @kybercrystals94's story:- Day 3 - Broken Hearted

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day5 #rise from the ashes #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #clone trooper hexx #clone trooper veetch #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 4 months

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Welcome To The Outpost: Part 3.0 - Epilogue

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: "Going Into Hiding'

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, CT-9901 Hunter, The Bad Batch, Clone Commander Mayday (mentioned) Word Count: ~7315 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: When circumstances force a return to the doomed outpost on Barton IV, Crosshair has a chance to confront Mayday's memory and all he taught him about loyalty.

This is it people, the feature-length finale!

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle Read Part 1.4 - No Way Out Read Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place Read Part 2.1 - Last Chance Read Part 2.2 - Broken Read Part 2.3 - Swept Away Read Part 2.4 - Grief Read Part 2.5 - Betrayal

I know a facility.

Remote.

Understaffed.

Shouldn’t be a problem to infiltrate.

Crosshair had found himself a secluded corner on Echo’s ship and occupied it for the entire journey, eyes glazed, staring at nothing. Omega came to check on him, as did Echo, but he simply shrugged off their concern with a wordless dismissal, careful not to meet their gaze.

The prospect of returning to Barton IV was a crushing weight inside his chest, and he felt sure that if he tried to speak he would throw up.

Eventually the whine of the ship’s engines changed as they left hyperspace, and the slight jostle of turbulence told him they had entered atmosphere.

Hunter stalked past without glancing at him. “Kit up,” was his growled command, without stopping.

Crosshair dropped a hand to the kit crate at his side, running his fingertips along the seams of the latches.

His armour.

Wrecker had saved it for him.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to put it back on. So much had changed. He was a different person since then.

Reluctantly he dragged himself to his feet and followed Hunter to the cockpit.

“On approach,” said Echo matter-of-factly. “Reading minimal life signs, if any.”

He supposed to the others that was reassuring.

Crosshair peered out the front screen, trying to see the dark grey of the depot nestled against the crook of the mountain. Instead he found himself squinting against the bright white glare of layered snow, the mere sight of it enough to draw an involuntary shiver from him.

Then he picked out the roofs of buildings, tips of sensor posts almost buried in the snow. Had an avalanche swamped the outpost too?

No, the mountain looked peaceful. Snow eddied in the wind, and he could see by the way it was piled against buildings which once stood on stilts that this was merely time and neglect which had let the drifts come in and swallow the depot.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Echo settled the ship onto the clean, unbroken snow, the top layer frozen to ice. He checked the sensors a final time as he powered down the systems.

“No heat signatures inside the depots, and nothing on comms.” The cyborg clone leaned back in his chair, turning his face to Hunter. “There’s no-one here.”

Wrecker turned his attention to Crosshair, taking in his casual attire.

“Wha’s the matter?” he asked, booming voice concerned. “Your old armour no good?”

Crosshair dropped his head and folded his arms tightly round his body, defensively shutting himself off from the others and working to supress the shudder of chill which threatened to betray him.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning from the others to head to the back of the ship. “I’ll be ready.”

Locking himself in one of the ship’s tiny cabins helped. It gave him time and space from the prying eyes of his brothers – from Hunter’s constant surveillance – to finally review his armour.

Yes, he’d glimpsed it as he’d opened the box in puzzlement when Wrecker first presented it to him. But getting it out – putting it on – felt like a whole other level of commitment.

Committing to being back with the Batch. To reclaiming part of what he had lost.

Taking a steadying breath, Crosshair released the latches and eased the kit crate open slowly, like he was readying for some detonation or other booby trap to spring.

Nothing happened. The lid opened silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing the neatly stacked segments of his Kartan-class armour.

Ash grey and blood red.

He remembered a laugh huffed through dying lungs. Remembered his own laugh in response, wild and edged with hysteria.

It almost bubbled up again now.

He picked up the helmet first, skimming his gloved fingertips over the visor, tracing the shape where it widened to accommodate his scope and the line art picked out in lighter grey paint around it.

A crosshair. That’s on the nose.

His lips pressed thin with tension he laid the helmet aside and reached for the next piece of his armour.

He handled each piece with care as he retrieved it, turning and inspecting it for damage – like he thought his brothers would have gotten any of this out and used it whilst he was gone.

Except they had. He remembered Omega telling him how Tech had fitted his wrist-com to her.

Trust Tech to go through his belongings without permission.

Crosshair bit back the hollow feeling like part of his soul was missing and continued his task.

His movements became more efficient, confident now that everything was as it should be. Pulling the spare blacks from the bottom of the case, he stripped out of his civilian clothes to put them on. The fabric gaped loosely against his body, a reminder he didn’t want of how much things had changed.

Then he was ready, and he would have to walk to meet his brothers.

Crosshairs and skulls.

Ash grey and blood red.

Except they no longer wore the same paint. He wouldn’t look like a member of Clone Force 99 returned to the fold. It would just be another sign of how out-of-place he was amongst them, trailing after those whose lives had moved on without him.

Still, Wrecker’s greeting when he emerged in his old armour was enthusiastic.

“Hey, it does fit!”

Crosshair ignored their scrutiny, gaze roving over the snowed-under depot and then up to the dazzling blue sky beyond the mountain peaks.

A solitary ice vulture wheeled against the open air, its lonely screech echoing through the stillness.

Any chance at introspection was broken by Hunter stepping close to him, posture tense, blaster ready in his hands.

“You said this outpost was remote, not abandoned entirely,” he said, the accusation clear in his voice.

Crosshair bristled in response, holding his rifle in front of himself defensively. “Well I didn’t get daily intel briefings in my cell,” he hissed, drawing himself up tall and rigid, hanging on to the only advantage he had over Hunter – his height.

Hunter leaned in close, undeterred. “I get the feeling there’s more to this place than you’re saying.”

The pit of Crosshair’s stomach dropped. Of course there was. He’d been through so much here, in such a short space of time.

You can’t go.

But he wasn’t going to say that.

Before he had time to think of an alternative response, they were interrupted by the lurca hound. Batcher was snarling and whining, shaking her head as she champed at the ground. Hunter turned away, distracted.

“There’s a high-pitched tone coming from those sensors,” he said. “What are they for?”

Crosshair ventured forwards a few steps, looking out towards the lazily pulsing red lights of the near-submerged beacons. He felt a wave of bitterness on behalf of a lost clone commander that the devices were now doing their job, like they hadn’t to keep him and his men alive.

“Perimeter detection against local raiders,” he said, letting some of the vehemence creep into his voice.

Hunter whirled on him. “You didn’t think to warn us about these raiders before?”

Painful thoughts too fresh in his mind, Crosshair met Hunter’s aggression with his own.

“No,” he ground out, voice strained through clenched teeth. “They were all dealt with.”

“And how do you know that?”

His mind flashed back to a cavern in the mountainside; blaster fire and an explosion; an avalanche. A broken body.

Let Hunter think what he wanted. It didn’t matter. Crosshair knew the truth and those memories were his and his alone; he wouldn’t share them with unwilling listeners.

Hunter didn’t care about this base. Didn’t care why Crosshair knew it was here, not really, other than to try and analyse every answer he gave for evidence that he couldn’t be trusted.

So, “Take a guess,” he said, pushing past his tattooed brother, stalking away from the others.

Let them think the worst of him.

It was so much easier to face their distrust, than to tear himself apart on their disbelief if he told them what really happened.

That he had turned on the Empire of his own accord.

That he had done it for a reg.

Crosshair shivered inside his armour. It was no warmer inside the depot than out.

And it was colder than the last time he was here. At least then, the welcome had been warm.

An unsettled feeling twisted low in his gut. The main building of the depot was all but submerged in snow, but this was the neglect of many months. The Empire hadn’t bothered to maintain this outpost after they had extracted the cargo from it. They had simply abandoned it.

Like they had abandoned the clone troopers they had stationed to guard it.

Omega ran past him, heading straight to the console they needed to plug the Imperial datapad into.

“The power to this outpost has been nearly depleted by the sensor beacons,” she declared as she screen blinked to life.

Echo leaned over her shoulder, inspecting the readout.

“Then we need to divert all power to this depot,” he said, pointing at the schematic.

“On it!”

Crosshair turned slowly on the spot, scanning the expanse of the room. It seemed much larger without a maze of crates stacked almost to the ceiling.

Seeing the others had done the same, Crosshair reached up and released the seals on his helmet. The cold air bit against his pale skin, the stillness of the room oppressive.

The other four moved to explore the place with interest, Echo and Omega focused on the terminals still, whilst Hunter poked around the edges and Wrecker surveyed the place with folded arms.

“So why’d the Empire abandon this place?” the big clone asked, sounding puzzled.

Crosshair shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I guess it served its purpose,” he said, voice distant.

From his position at the console, Echo gave a non-committal grunt. “Sounds familiar.”

Crosshair couldn’t help the involuntary flinch as a loathsome voice sounded in his memory. He served his purpose as a soldier of the Empire.

Shivering away the memory, Crosshair turned his back on the others and slowly headed towards the unlit corner of the depot. Behind him Echo and Omega’s voices murmured softly as they worked on the datapad, but he didn’t really hear them. His torch beam swung across discarded equipment, chairs and containers shoved to the side of the room; everything perfectly empty, perfectly still.

He came to a halt as his feet brought him to a dark, cold cylinder standing forlornly in the middle of the floor. A portable heater, long inactive.

Heat and comfort had once spilled from this device. He’d been too reserved to approach it himself, certain he wouldn’t fit in. He had never fit in with the regs. Better to hold himself apart, to choose his isolation for himself, than to face rejection.

Until it had been picked up and carried to him. A greeting offered in shared brotherhood.

The commander’s persistence had been… infuriating. Crosshair didn’t want to share heat, didn’t want to share conversation or camaraderie. He wanted to be left alone, because after this, he would be alone again. No point pretending it would be any other way. He was one of the elite, a clone commando, one of the few products of Kamino that the Empire saw worth in keeping around.

He certainly didn’t want to associate with the reg who had spoken so disrespectfully to Lieutenant Nolan – no matter how much he admired the man’s grit in doing so.

Especially when it was so easy to imagine the long-haired clone’s face was shadowed with a tattoo, and his voice reminded him of one which had told him you’ll only ever be a number to them.

He pulled his head up quickly, not sure how long he had lost to staring at the cold, dead heater whilst memories clawed at his chest, fighting to be recognised. Determinedly, he swung his torch further into the room.

The beam winked back at him from blank, sightless visors. A tumbled pile of clone trooper helmets, carelessly discarded on the cold, bare floor.

The jolt of realisation stuttered through him, breath stilling to nothing just for a moment. Some unfamiliar feeling closed his throat, making it hard to swallow, and the circle of torchlight shook as an unbidden tremor set up through his right arm once more.

He clicked the torch off and stowed it as he moved, leaden and reluctant, towards the dishevelled memorial.

Not a memorial any more. Just cast-offs.

He couldn’t not look. Eleven helmets had sat atop the blasted, maker-forsaken cargo crates last time he was here.

Now his gaze skipped over the pile, counting, where broken and dirty plastoid was piled against abandoned clone kit lockers.

Twelve.

Ragged fabric wraps set the final helmet apart from the rest. Some unknown feeling wrenched at his core, and Crosshair didn’t know if it was desolation at finding this helmet here with the rest, or relief that it wasn’t buried, abandoned, beneath the many feet of snow outside.

His skin crawled with that familiar feeling of being watched, and he ignored it. Forcing an exhale from stilled lungs and with an effort to still his shaking hands, he bent and lifted Mayday’s helmet from the pile.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this was somehow worse. Abandoned. Forgotten. Discarded by the Empire, even in death, so carelessly tossed aside like they had never mattered in the first place.

Unbidden pressure stung behind his eyes as he surveyed the helm, one he’d only known for a handful of days and yet was etched indelibly in his memory. He dropped his gaze to one side, fighting the choking feeling that seized his core, fingers going tight against the cold, brittle plastoid.

Once he had his breathing back under control, he stepped forwards and carefully settled the empty bucket atop the clone kit boxes, his touch lingering as he pulled away.

For a long moment he simply started at the dark visor, wrapping himself in the memory of the commander’s calm presence and sardonic humour.

Mayday.

Would he be here without him? Six months of horror on Tantiss behind him, but finally reunited with his brothers, his… sister?

Or would he still be a pawn of the Empire, isolated, alone, fighting to prove loyalty to a master who had no qualms about betraying him?

He briefly brushed his fingers against the helmet, straightening the fabric bindings, then bent and picked up the next helmet. And the next.

He wasn’t sure why he did it. There was no-one here to see. No-one here to care what had happened to these fallen troopers.

But Mayday had cared so deeply for his lost men, so carefully maintained the memorial inside the frozen, forsaken outpost. Without conscious thought Crosshair worked quietly to rebuild the sombre display, and the tight tangle in his chest eased a little as he did.

He knew which one was Veetch’s helmet, scorched and burned by the shuttle explosion. He wondered about the rest. Mayday had mentioned some of their names, but Crosshair couldn’t remember them. He handled each helmet reverently though, arranging them as two neat rows of six, silently staring back at him.

On one helmet he fancied he could see the ghost of a hexagonal pattern, white on white. He quickly shifted the other helmets to make room beside Mayday’s, rearranging them until this helmet sat next to his.

Hexx was my oldest friend. We’d been together since… forever.

And he knew it was Hunter watching him, could still feel that heated gaze boring into his back, because they had been together since forever.

Except now Hunter was searching for every reason not to trust him. Even though he hated it, Crosshair didn’t blame him – he wasn’t sure he trusted himself.

Perhaps Tech had been right; perhaps he was fooling himself. Perhaps he really couldn’t change.

He wanted to believe he had changed. Wanted to believe it was because of Mayday.

When he finally glanced back over his shoulder, his shadow had gone. The space where Hunter should have been echoed like a void in his heart.

When Batcher started reacting to something outside the depot, Crosshair headed for the door without declaring his intentions.

“Where are you going?” came Hunter’s familiar growl, the same question he asked every time Crosshair had moved in his vicinity since they had been reunited. Like he couldn’t even be trusted to go to the fresher without being suspected of betrayal.

“To check the perimeter,” was Crosshair’s tired response, not bothering to look at his brother.

He traipsed back through the snow, cutting away from the path they had trodden from the ship to the building and venturing instead across the unbroken expanse of white that layered, several feet deep, over what he remembered being a dark concrete landing zone.

Somewhere down there, Mayday had gasped his last breath as blood trickled from his broken lungs under the uncaring eyes of the Empire.

Crosshair pulled his gaze up from the floor, sweeping his attention across the tranquil snowscape. At regular intervals, the rounded tops of the sensor arrays broke the surface of the snow, dark now that they had been down-powered to conserve power to the depot.

Movement fluttered in the periphery of his vision. One of the ice vultures alighted on top of the almost-submerged communications array.

He couldn’t stop staring at it, gnawing despair settling in his gut again as he wondered what had happened to Mayday after he had fallen.

The bird seemed unbothered by Crosshair’s gaze. It shook its feathers out, returning the clone’s inspection with an unblinking stare.

The muffled crunch of footsteps breaking through the top crust of ice on the snow drew an irate sigh from him.

“Are you going to follow me everywhere?” he bit out, a sour note leaching into his voice. No point hiding his feelings from Hunter. His brother would sense the tension anyway.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you keep going into hiding,” said Hunter, his voice low and gruff. “On the ship, in the depot… now hiding out here.”

A rough shove met Crosshair’s shoulder and he stumbled forwards, hissing past bared teeth as he spun to face his brother. Hunter’s tattooed face was creased in a glower which distorted his features into an unfamiliar mask. It stabbed at Crosshair’s heart to see the vehement distrust there.

“Trying to stop us finding out what happened here?”

Crosshair swallowed thickly. He didn’t want to tell them what had happened here. Didn’t want their scrutiny to destroy the sanctity of his memories.

And he certainly didn’t want to talk to Hunter right now, when he was still grappling with the dread that Mayday’s body was buried somewhere under the snow.

“Not now, Hunter,” he grit out, his gaze sliding away for a moment before returning to glare at his brother. “Or does it kill you to know you’re not the most important thing in my life?”

Hunter stepped forwards, face twisting in a snarl, gesturing back towards the depot. “Did you kill those troopers? Like you tried to kill us?”

Crosshair startled, eyes flickering wide as a lightning flash of pain crossed his features. Then he narrowed them again, pulling his defences back into place as he levelled a malevolent stare at his brother and pursed his lips, refusing to answer the accusation.

His silence did nothing to deter Hunter. He was shoved again, Hunter’s open hand colliding roughly with his shoulder, and this was achingly familiar, the way they used to fight. Hunter driving and driving until he got a reaction.

“Were they your men? Were you in charge of this outpost?” Every question was punctuated by a step forwards, and Crosshair found himself backpedalling unconsciously. Without even thinking his hands went to his firepuncher, drawing it from his pack and holding it in front of himself like a shield.

“What happened?” pressed Hunter, and his voice was low with fury. “Did they not follow Imperial orders to your liking? Did you kill them, like you killed your squad on Kamino?”

Something inside Crosshair snapped. It might have been the breaking of his heart.

He set his feet in the snow, trembling right hand finding Hunter’s chest, and shoved back with all his might. Hunter staggered back a couple of steps and dropped into a crouch, teeth bared, coiled to strike.

“He told me not to give up!” spat Crosshair, surprised as the words left his lips. He wasn’t going to justify himself to Hunter, he wasn’t, but the words spilled from him regardless. “So I didn’t. I didn’t give up on you – not like you’d given up on me. I trusted you to listen to my warning. But you didn’t, and Omega got captured anyway. That was your failing Hunter, not mine!”

He saw the barb hit home in the dilation of Hunter’s pupils, the way his top lip curled in a quiet snarl.

Knew he’d hit right at the heart of Hunter’s distress by the fact that his brother didn’t go for him. Just stood and seethed.

“I tried to warn you, Hunter,” he continued, emboldened. His voice dropped low and icy, wrapping his quaking right hand around his rifle, trying to still the tremors. “I risked everything to send you that message. You ignored it. You let Omega be taken to Tantiss.”

Hunter flinched, like the words were an attack. Except now the floodgates were open, and Crosshair couldn’t hold back if he tried.

“Omega went through what she did because you failed,” he pressed, rage burning all over again as he remembered his sister, trying to hide her distress under fragile bravery as she snuck in to visit him, day after day, during those long, helpless months of captivity. “You’re angry because she escaped with my help, not yours.” Then, the words thrown with the intent to wound, “You’re angry because she doesn’t need you any more.”

It was almost a relief when Hunter threw the first punch. It was clumsy and slow, telegraphed by anger, and Crosshair sidestepped it easily, but the electric adrenaline of their fight ricocheted up his spine as he readied to launch at his brother.

Then the lurca hound sounded a sharp bark, a noise of alarm. For a moment both clones were distracted, looking back towards the dog who danced in front of the depot. Wrecker’s broad shoulders, and Echo’s narrower frame, loomed into view behind her.

Crosshair hesitated, breathing heavily through his mouth as he fought the impulse to continue their fight. He cleared his head, taking in their surroundings. The ice vulture took off with a screech, ragged wings beating hard to carry it into the sky.

For a moment, his gaze found Hunter’s. The other’s cheeks were still flush with anger but his eyes were wide and alert, their aggression forgotten as they exchanged a querying look.

Then the ground rumbled and fractured beneath them.

A lifetime’s worth of instinct kicked in and Hunter was grabbing him, but there was no fight in it. Instead his brother threw him away from the fissuring ice, back towards the depot.

“Move!”

Yes it was a command, but not one Crosshair was going to fight him on. And something seized in his chest at the undercurrent of concern in the single word, and the way Hunter had reacted almost without thought to shove him out of the path of danger.

He glanced down at the rapidly disintegrating ground between him and Hunter, backpedalling as the crazed pattern of cracks spread and snow began to cascade away from him.

Then came the roar, a reverberated bellow of something organic, something that most definitely was not just seismic activity.

Realising the danger, he and Hunter were running even as the creature erupted. The gargantuan thing dwarfed both clone troopers, jaws snapping at the air as it screeched its freedom from the ice and snow, before crashing to the ground and lunging immediately towards its fleeing prey.

Crosshair’s long legs ate up the snow, and he’d done this before, tried to outrun an avalanche with a brother at his side who’d been swept up, broken-

He glanced to his side, saw Hunter pacing him. The sergeant gestured towards the outpost, where the others were hollering panicked encouragement to them both.

“Hurry!” came Hunter’s bitten command, and then they were lunging for the depot and Wrecker was heaving the doors closed.

They were still stumbling to a halt when the building reverberated, doors buckling under the force of the thing outside slamming against the structure.

Their stunned silence was broken by the forced cheer in Omega’s voice as she commented, “Guess we know what the perimeter sensors were meant to keep out.”

The depot shuddered again, lights at the control consoles flickering as the power cables swayed. The creature’s mighty call was only slightly muffled by the barrier, and four pairs of eyes rounded on Crosshair.

“Didn’t think to warn us about that thing either?” asked Hunter acidly.

“I didn’t know about that,” he muttered in response, even as he remembered a comment Mayday had made when he had first arrived. Don’t go far. You’ll freeze to death, unless what’s in the ice gets you first.

He pushed past the others, heading for the console where Omega’s stolen Imperial datapad was still plugged in. He pushed it to one side, tapping at the controls, pulling up reports on screen.

“Ice wyrm,” he said, tilting his chin in acknowledgement as Echo came to stand over his shoulder.

Of course he kept accurate records. He was a good soldier.

Wrecker and Hunter joined him too, and Omega wriggled her way to the front of their small cluster so she could see the screen.

“Great,” said Wrecker as the pounding outside the depot continued, “so what now?”

“We can’t get to the ship with that thing out there,” said Hunter darkly. “We’ll have to draw it beyond the sensors and reboot them.”

Crosshair scanned Mayday’s report a final time, then turned and pulled his helmet back on. “I’ll handle it,” he said, venturing to the doors. He rested one hand against them, listening to the receding sounds of movement outside.

“Not alone. We’ll do it together.”

The hand that landed on his shoulder was tense, but there was no aggression there. Crosshair glanced down at his brother, saw the look of determination on Hunter’s face.

“Sure you can trust me?” he hissed bitterly.

A moment of pain clouded Hunter’s features before he too pulled his helmet on, and he gave a short nod.

Wrecker stepped beside them, ready to heave the doors open, and Echo positioned himself between the feuding brothers.

“I’ll spot you both from the tower,” he offered, unperturbed by their antagonism.

“Then let’s get to it,” growled Hunter, “before it tears this place apart.”

Crosshair’s long legs ate up the ground easily, and Hunter peeled away from him in the opposite direction. It had made sense when Hunter proposed the plan; split up, so the creature in the ice couldn’t devour both of them at once.

It didn’t stop Crosshair feeling incredibly exposed as he sprinted for the perimeter, anxiously scanning the snow for any sign of disruption that would signal the wyrm’s position.

In the periphery of his vision the snow creased, then crumpled. He whipped his head round but the movement was far off – closer to Hunter.

Without breaking stride he levelled his rifle, activating his com.

“Three o’clock,” was his terse instruction, before he sent a blaster bolt arcing into the rapidly accelerating mound of snow.

His confidence in his ability may have been wavering, but his shot was on target. With a screech which reverberated in Crosshair’s bones the ice wyrm surfaced, jaws snapping as it lunged for the running figure before it.

Hunter dove to the side, throwing himself into a roll which just barely saw him clear of the creature’s attack. He rolled to his feet, a single fluid movement that tracked his target, blaster in one hand, knife in the other.

Then with a sharp, vertical drop, Hunter was gone.

“Hunter!”

Crosshair barely recognised the strangled cry which tore from him as he changed the path of his momentum, heading towards the last place he saw his brother.

He skidded to a halt when he saw the fractures in the snow and ice, a chasm opened into the wyrm tunnels below.

At his side Batcher bounced and paced the edge of the fissure, barking and whining in agitation.

Sparing a glance for his surroundings and unable to spot where the wyrm had gone when it submerged, Crosshair edged towards the hole where Hunter had disappeared.

Sunlight filtered into the tunnels below, and on a pile of crushed snow was Hunter’s body, face down, lights on his pack winking brightly in the gloom.

Crosshair would never admit to the way his heart seized as he surveyed the scene below. A clone trooper, lying broken in the snow. Injuries that couldn’t be seen behind armour.

A chunk of snow crumbled away from the edge of the pit, pattering softly down to dust Hunter’s body with flakes of ice.

Hunter’s body, lost to view as the ice consumed him.

Mayday’s body, lost to view as the avalanche consumed him.

Crosshair drew in a shuddering breath, trying to still the racing panic in his veins. He remembered another time when he’d stared down at one of his siblings lost to the depths and dark – remembered as well the anxious loathing he had felt when his brothers had trained their guns on him, despite his grapple shot being the thing that had rescued Omega.

No grapples this time, and he didn’t trust his aim even if he’d had one. He stared down at Hunter, willing him to stir with the intensity of his gaze.

Finally Hunter shifted, groggily pulling himself to his hands and knees. Crosshair released the breath he had been holding, listening to Hunter’s laboured breath through the com.

Laboured, but only with exertion. Not the sodden exhales struggling from broken lungs that had soundtracked his last stay on this planet.

With the proof he needed to still his nerves, Crosshair called down to his brother.

“Can you get outside the perimeter from down there?”

Hunter dragged himself to his feet, head swivelling as he checked both directions of the tunnel he now found himself in.

“I’ll follow the tunnel north. Find out,” he said. He sounded calm, collected.

Crosshair dropped one hand to Batcher’s scruff, and the lurca hound gave a happy huff.

“We’ll track you from up here,” he said, turning his gaze in the direction Hunter looked. A flat expanse of snow stretched between him and the wide-spaced perimeter beacons, but he had no way to tell where the danger lurked.

No use hesitating. Hunter didn’t. In the chasm beneath him his brother took off running, and Crosshair had no choice but to call the lurca hound to him and set off in the same direction.

Follow his brother, and hope Barton IV didn’t claim any more clone lives.

Echo told him as soon as he spotted the wyrm moving, and Crosshair spun and fired. Five shots, six, seven, before an arcing blue bolt of rifle-fire found its mark inside the creature’s gaping maw.

Far too close for comfort. The thing crashed beneath the ice again, convulsing with pain, but that only meant he’d sent the creature towards Hunter, trapped in the tunnels.

Some brother he was.

He clenched and unclenched his hand again as he ran, trying to shake the spasms from it. Tried not to think of how executing the Imperial lieutenant was the last accurate shot he ever made.

“You’re about 400 metres from the perimeter,” he said into the com, without breaking stride.

At least he hoped that was right. Batcher loped along beside him with boundless energy, and he had to hope she was keeping him on track for sprinting above where Hunter was trapped beneath the ice and snow, in a tunnel which would become a tomb if Crosshair didn’t do something about it.

The perimeter beacons were still dead and lightless but they were beyond them now, and Crosshair’s lungs burned with the exertion of running. He still hadn’t recovered fully from his long incarceration, and the ordeals contained within, and this fast and furious pace combined with the cold and dread was sapping his strength.

Then Batcher pulled up short, giving an excited bark, before starting to paw at the ice.

Without thinking Crosshair turned the rifle in his hands, starting to hammer at the ice with the butt of the firepuncher.

“We found a weak point,” he huffed through the com to Hunter. “We’ll try to dig through.”

“You’ll try?!” came his brother’s disdainful response, and he didn’t modulate his words well enough to hide his stress from Crosshair.

“Glad you heard me properly,” drawled Crosshair in sarcastic response, drawing a curtain of defensive detachment around himself as he battled with the ice.

Try not to think too hard.

Try not to think about dragging another clone trooper from the choking, killing snow.

He took a step back and reversed the rifle, firing down at the ground. The blaster fire had greater success at punching through the ice, and then he was back to bashing at it, trying to make a large enough opening so see through into the tunnel below.

He could see the floor. Closer than the break where Hunter had fallen through. He had a chance of reaching him.

Assuming the opening they’d made was in the tunnel that Hunter was trapped in.

As if on cue, Hunter’s voice sounded in his ear through their private com.

“Am I gonna have a way out of here or not?”

“If you end up where we hope you do,” breathed Crosshair, gaze riveted on the cavity beneath him.

It was an agonisingly long moment before he heard movement in the ice, and Hunter staggered into view, skidding to a stop in the patch of sunlight bursting down from Crosshair and Batcher’s position.

“Get up here!” hissed Crosshair in instant command, breaking away another edge of the ice and then leaning over as far as he dared.

“Not yet,” said Hunter, his voice dark. “Where’s the wyrm?”

Both brothers stilled, Crosshair lifting his head to gaze out over the ice. He couldn’t see anything – none of the telltale shifting of the surface that would indicate the wyrm’s passage.

He was about to ask Echo for an update when the ground shook with an almighty roar.

Redundantly, Hunter yelled, “It’s past the perimeter!”

And Crosshair relayed the order, “Omega, activate the sensors!”

The ground quaked and Crosshair swayed, almost losing his footing. Heedless of his own safety he crouched to the edge of the hole, thrusting the butt of his rifle down, anchoring it with his weight as Hunter leaped and grabbed onto the handle.

For a death-defying moment the clone sergeant hung in mid-air, feet scrabbling at nothing, as subterranean death surged towards him in the tunnel. Then his feet found the lip of the ice and Crosshair was hauling him to the surface level, and without stopping both brothers broke into a sprint back towards the perimeter.

Ahead of him, Crosshair watched the red light of the beacons pulse to life.

Behind him the ice erupted as the wyrm surfaced, jaws churning, gaining on the two clones faster than they could run.

Their only chance was to make it to the safety of the perimeter.

Crosshair could barely feel his legs. His hands were numb around his rifle.

His thoughts were full of another race in the crashing snow, a hand connecting with his shoulder and pushing him to safety.

Mayday’s body, lost to view as the avalanche consumed him.

The wyrm’s screech was deafening, the hot blast of its breath buffeting him along.

Then Hunter dived, throwing himself headlong past the beacon, and Crosshair was with him, crashing to his front in the snow, unable to keep running, waiting to feel the wyrm’s jaws on him–

A sharp whine sounded at the top end of his hearing.

Death didn’t come.

Slowly Crosshair turned, reaching up and releasing his helmet to take it off and heave in lungfuls of sharp, freezing air.

Just beyond the perimeter the gargantuan ice monster keened, head raised to the sky and mouth snapping ineffectively at nothing as the beacons did their work to repel it.

Slowly the creature crashed away from them, segmented armoured body sliding beneath the snow once more, leaving only churned ice channels in its wake.

All of a sudden the adrenaline abandoned him, and Crosshair sat back into the snow with an exhausted gasp. Around him Batcher ran in excited circles, growling and barking to see off the predator that threatened her pack.

Chest heaving as he caught his breath, Crosshair turned to the side. Hunter had similarly sagged into the ice, helmet also discarded, long hair swaying a little as his shoulders heaved.

Hunter glanced at him. He was panting through an open mouth, and the expression on his face was open and unguarded. There was no hint of the earlier anger in his eyes as he watched Crosshair steadily, their expressions mirrored.

Slowly, Hunter closed his mouth and offered a small nod.

An acknowledgement. An olive branch.

Cold and exertion still stinging his lungs, Crosshair returned the gesture, the slightest incline of his head, but it was enough. Hunter’s face softened, and an understanding passed between them that needed no words.

When Hunter looked out towards the horizon, Crosshair followed his gaze. All was tranquil. Sniper and scout sat shoulder to shoulder in the snow, whilst Crosshair's heart tangled in conflicted relief that his brother was safe.

Batcher came and plonked down beside them, leaning her muscled body up against him, and he raised a hand to pet her absent-mindedly.

Breathing lightly, keeping his gaze on the horizon, Crosshair let Hunter’s silent company begin to bind back together the fractured fragments of his soul.

The setting sun danced pink and gold in the sky, warm light bouncing off the snow-blanketed mountains to light the valley in a blaze of soft colour.

Crosshair’s pupils narrowed to pinpricks as his enhanced eyes drank in the light. Seeing it like this, Barton IV had a severe kind of beauty.

He wondered if Mayday had ever found time to fall in love with the planet he had been stationed. If there had been a time before hardship and abandonment, when laugher rang from the barracks as clone troopers brawled in the snow and tumbled through snow-ball fights.

The Mayday he had known held no love for Barton IV. Held no love for the Empire.

He had held love for the men he had lost.

Had found space in his scarred heart to shelter a lost sniper.

Crosshair knew firsthand how a heart could be ravaged when something you loved turned on you. If he hadn’t loved his brothers so fiercely, he wouldn’t have been so hurt by everything that came after.

Howling his despair to the mountainside that night during the snowstorm had been cathartic, finally giving voice to a wound on his soul left too long to fester. Mayday had borne witness without judgement whilst grief long repressed spilled forth, not once telling him he should clamp down on the feeling and let it drive him on in spite, like he had been doing.

Perhaps, without that, they wouldn't be here now.

Overcoming the day’s trials didn’t change things. Not really. Betrayal and hatred and love were so tightly interwoven that he couldn't separate any one thought from his complex feelings about his brother.

But Hunter, of all of them, was the other half of his soul, and time nor distance was going to change that, no matter what passed between them.

Although it was with trepidation, Crosshair was ready to face the confrontation he had been avoiding since they had reunited on Ryloth’s moon. To actually speak to Hunter, not just evade him or start an argument.

Arguing was easier. There was hurt on both sides, he could see that now.

But in this place, bolstered by the memory of a reg commander’s unwavering faith in him, he finally felt steady enough to take a step towards the middle ground.

His gaze flicked from the sun-gold horizon to where Hunter approached, eyes downcast, heading for the ship.

His nerve almost failed him. The other clone was almost up the ramp before he forced himself to speak.

“Hunter.”

The name was a rasp in his throat, but it was a relief to say it. An even bigger relief when Hunter paused, turning to him even if his expression was guarded.

Crosshair kept his back mostly to him, still scanning the distant swell of the valley where it dropped away to sunset hues. “I… I thought I knew what I was getting into with the Empire.” It was a bitter admission, the words sour in his mouth as he spoke, but they needed to be said.

The leaden weight of regret made his stomach roil. It had taken Mayday dying to show him the truth of things.

“I thought I was being a good soldier,” he said, voice imperceptibly cracking.

We were good soldiers. We followed orders. And for what?

He listened to the sound of Hunter shifting, neither approaching nor retreating. Then his brother’s gruff voice came, the words cautiously placed into the silence between them.

“…Nobody really understood what was happening back then.”

Crosshair dropped his gaze to the floor. If he tried hard, he could pretend it was an apology. As if Hunter was saying, I should have known what was happening to you.

“I’ve… done things.” He turned his head, not looking at Hunter, but offering his profile for scrutiny. Like it would somehow convince Hunter of his honesty. “I’ve made mistakes.”

Mission’s a mission.

Yeah, I used to say the same thing.

"I never gave up on you.”

Hunter’s voice was quiet, his words spoken to the distance, but they shot through Crosshair and froze him in place as readily as the ice.

"I never gave up on you.” The comment was repeated, soft and introspective. There was an ache of regret in the words. “I just didn't know how to reach you."

Crosshair kept his head down, fighting against the burning feeling behind his eyes.

When Hunter moved to stand beside him he chose the other side, so they were still not looking at each other. Crosshair could see him in his peripheral vision, all tense lines and folded arms, as though their proximity alone were a source of stress.

Then he exhaled a deep sigh, his posture relaxing just a tiny bit, even as his frown remained.

“They weren’t your squad.”

“No.”

“You weren’t stationed here?”

“…No.”

The soft question wasn’t an apology. It would never be an apology. But Hunter’s tone was gentle as he asked, “So what happened here?”

Crosshair swallowed thickly. What happened here?

Two snow-bound planets.

On Kaller, something inside him died.

On Barton IV, it was reborn.

“The commander of this squad…”

His voice faltered, throat closing around grief. Mayday’s broken helmet, secluded inside the now-sealed outpost. Memory lost to all but him.

“He saved my life.”

Hunter shifted his weight, but didn’t retreat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Crosshair lifted his face to the sky, watching a distant ice vulture circle lazily against the clear, cloudless shimmer of the sunset.

Don’t give up.

He took a deep, steadying breath and offered a small nod.

“………His name was Mayday…”

And that's a wrap!

Wow, what a journey. Did you read the whole story with me? Welcome To The Outpost eventually ran to over 30,000 words, each chapter written in response to the Angstpril writing challenge with @kybercrystals94 and @the-little-moment, but it felt incomplete without dealing with Crosshair's return to Barton IV. So I hope you have enjoyed this epic-length epilogue!

What's next for me after this? I have my Cadet Batch fic 'Pieces Of The People We Love' to return to, so let's see if I can finally nail Part 3 and get that updated. Then of course we have @summer-of-bad-batch to perhaps work on some lighter-hearted stories than Outpost has been!

Did you enjoy reading? Drop me a comment to let me know! :)

#the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #fanfiction #welcome to the outpost #badthingshappenbingo #going into hiding #tbb crosshair #ct 9904 #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #tbb hunter #clone sergeant hunter #crosshair and mayday #crosshair and hunter #barton iv #the outpost #the return #littlekyberthoughts

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