#littlekyberthoughts

[kybercrystals94]

Sounds Like Him

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Angstpril 2024 | Day 24 | Prompt 24: Ghost of You

Rated: G | Words: 435 | Summary: Wrecker and Crosshair talk about their lost brother. | Character Focus: Wrecker, Crosshair 

Wrecker groggily wakes to the sound of sure fingers typing. “Go to sleep, Tech,” he grumbles, turning over in the pull down bunk to face the wall. 

The typing stops abruptly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Crosshair’s voice. Not Tech’s. Never Tech’s. 

Tech is dead. 

Wrecker rolls to his back, stares at the bunk above him. “Sorry,” he says. 

Crosshair makes a scoffing noise. “What for? I woke you up.”

“I thought you were Tech for a second,” Wrecker says. “It just sounded…like he was here. The way you were typing. Haven’t heard typing like that since before.”

Crosshair is quiet for a few moments, and Wrecker isn’t sure he’s going to answer, and then, “Hunter types like a newborn blurrg’s first steps.” 

Wrecker barks out a surprised laugh, turning his head to look at his brother. Crosshair smirks back at him. 

“I missed you, Cross,” Wrecker says. “A whole lot.” He isn’t sure why he’s suddenly feeling sentimental, but the words need to be said. 

He misses Tech. Every day. 

But he also missed Crosshair. 

Every day.  

Crosshair blinks at him, smile dropping. He glances away. “I missed you too.” 

Wrecker sits up, ducking his head so he doesn’t hit it on the upper bunk. He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Did Omega ever tell you about Tech winning a pod race?”

A half shrug and a nod. “A little. No details, but I got the gist of it.” 

“You should’ve seen him,” Wrecker says, becoming animated. “He was the craziest racer there.” 

Crosshair chuckles. “You sound surprised.” 

“Nah,” Wrecker says. “Just proud of him.” 

His little brother hums. “I would’ve liked to see that,” Crosshair mumbles, looking down at the data pad gone idle in his lap. He pecks one finger at the screen, igniting it to life, but he doesn’t do anything else with it. “There’s a lot of things I should’ve been here for.”

Wrecker swallows, but only lets his silence agree. 

“Maybe,” Crosshair continues once the quiet between them has settled, “you can tell me what happened…with the pod race.”

Wrecker grins so big it hurts. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to share this story with Crosshair. All the details, even the ones he and Tech and Omega had carefully left out when reporting to Hunter and Echo. 

“Well,” Wrecker says, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “I’ll have to start at the beginning.” 

Crosshair rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Well, that’s obvious,” he snarks. 

And kriff, if he doesn’t sound just like Tech when he says it. 

@the-little-moment @just-here-with-my-thoughts, less than a week left of Angstpril! But that also means less than a week until the end of the Bad Batch 😭 I'm not ready!!

And I'm posting this story before the second to last episode airs just in case it ruins me emotionally....eeeeeep!

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Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @merkitty49

[kybercrystals94]

The Last Time

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Angstpril 2024 | Day 30 | Prompt 30: The Last Time

Rated: G | Words: 1562 | Summary: “...it was the last time…” | Character Focus: Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker, Echo

“Are you awake?” Tech’s voice asks, right at the edge of Hunter’s bunk. 

Hunter doesn’t know how anyone can sleep with the hurricane raging outside the walls. It sounds like the entire city might topple under the weight of its rampant fury. Not that Hunter’s scared. His blanket is only pulled up over his head because the flashes of lightning burn his eyes. But the thin blanket does not protect his frayed senses from the bone rattling thunder and the constant barrage of torrential rain lashing against the walls and windows. 

“I’m awake,” Hunter says, voice muffled into his fabric sanctuary.

The edge of his mattress dips as Tech sits down next to him. “Excellent. Would you like to see the weather radar I have accessed?”

No, Hunter thinks, but he hears the slight tremble in his brother’s voice. With a sigh, he leaves the small comfort of his makeshift barrier and sits up. “Sure, Tech.” 

It is the middle of their sleep cycle. Their barracks should be dark, but the incessant lightning keeps the room lit with a flickering, white light. Tech does not wait for further invitation before he scrambles the rest of the way into Hunter’s bunk, putting himself between Hunter and the wall. He props his data pad between them, the screen a mass of twisting colors. “We are here,” Tech says, pointing to a tiny blip amongst the chaos.

“What do the different colors mean?” Hunter asks. He already knows. Reading weather maps is a basic part of their training; however, he also knows that Tech finds comfort in over-explaining even the most rudimentary facts. 

Hunter becomes so engrossed in the rambled explanation of weather patterns, that he doesn’t notice the shadow prowling across the room until it speaks almost directly into his ear.  “What are you doing?”

Hunter won’t admit if his nerves also leapt bodily in surprise, but Tech startles, the small jerk of motion jarring against Hunter’s side. 

Crosshair stands there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders hiked just a little towards his ears, waiting for an answer. 

“Tech’s showing me his weather map,” Hunter says. 

Crosshair shifts his weight, sharp eyes cutting away. “I want to see when this karking storm is gonna end,” he mumbles. Like Tech, he does not wait for an invitation to clamber into the bunk. Crosshair puts himself between Tech and the wall. Hunter shifts a little to make more room, Tech tucked snugly in the middle.

Tech starts his explanation all over again, moving the data pad to rest in his lap so that all three of them can see. 

“Hey!” an indignant shout comes from across the room. There’s a loud thump, the thudding of feet running across the room. Wrecker looms over Hunter’s crowded bunk, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. “No one told me we were sharing a bunk tonight. I don’t want to be alone either!” 

“We aren’t sharing a bunk,” Tech corrects him, “I am showing Hunter and Crosshair the storm’s progress on my radar.” 

Wrecker grins. “Then I want to see too!” 

He dives into the bunk amidst shouts of protest, wedging himself into the nonexistent space between Crosshair and the wall. Hunter is nearly shoved out of his own bed, clinging to Tech’s arm to keep himself from toppling to the floor. 

“We can’t all fit!” Crosshair squawks.

“Yes, we can!” Wrecker says, sounding all too pleased with himself.

“Wrecker,” Crosshair wheezes, “your elbow is digging into my ribs.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Wrecker says. 

Another pause. 

“Wrecker, your elbow is still digging into my ribs.”

“I know, but I’m really comfortable,” Wrecker sighs.

Tech huffs. “At least one of us is.” 

Hunter is halfway off the bunk. “We can make this work,” he says, “but not like this.” He drops to the floor and stands up. 

“How?” Crosshair asks. 

“Sideways,” Hunter says. “Now move.” 

“We’re too tall to fit sideways,” Tech points out. 

“Do you want to share my bunk or not?” Hunter asks. 

At that, his brothers don’t argue, quickly rearranging themselves. Sitting up as they had been, their feet - with the exception of Wrecker - come just to the edge of the thin mattress. They leave space for Hunter between the head of the bed and Tech. Hunter climbs into his allocated spot, and they situate his and Wrecker’s blankets over all four of them. 

“Now,” Tech says, taking out his data pad. “Shall I start again?” 

They listen to Tech talk about the storm, hardly noticing the stark flashes of lightning or the grumbling of the thunder or the endless onslaught of rain, until one by one they fall asleep. 

But it is the last time the four share a bunk. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

"Stop looking at my cards!” Wrecker cries, holding his splay of cards against his chest.  

Crosshair scoffs, sitting back. “I would if you’d stop waving them directly in my face.”  

“Maybe if you stayed on your side of the table...”  

“Can we play just one game without an argument?” Hunter asks, the patience in his voice becoming transparently thin. 

A brief moment of silence. Wrecker puts down a card. 

“Wrecker, that is an illegal play,” Tech says.  

“Is not,” Wrecker says. 

Crosshair picks up the card and flicks it back at Wrecker. “Is so. Take it back.” 

Wrecker grumbles, but puts the card back in his hand. 

The game continues without further incident until Crosshair wins the round. 

“How did you know I was bluffing?” Tech asks as Crosshair sweeps his winnings of spare bolts and screws into his pile. 

Crosshair grins. “You’ve got a tell.” 

“Really? What is it?” Wrecker asks eagerly, squinting at Tech. 

Tech rolls his eyes, gathering the cards to shuffle. “I do not have a tell.” 

“He does,” Crosshair says to Wrecker, ignoring Tech, “but I’m not going to give it away. It’s my strategy. He counts cards, and I read his tells.” 

Hunter groans. “Tech…” 

“That is not cheating!” Tech cries, indignant. 

“With your enhancement…” 

“Now wait a minute–” 

“Yeah! Using enhancements is cheating!” Wrecker declares. 

Tech huffs. “Then Crosshair shouldn’t be able to read my tells,” he says, then adds, glancing at Wrecker, “not that I have any.” 

“How the kark am I supposed to play then? Blindfolded?” Crosshair cries. 

Tech shrugs indifferently. “If necessary.” 

The table erupts in a tangle of arguments, rational and irrational alike. 

It is the last time they play cards before Echo joins the Batch. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“Here we are,” Hunter says cheerfully, stepping into the clearing and removing his helmet. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the inhalation of pure air, rich with the scents of primitive wilderness. The only electromagnetic signals his senses can pick up are from the Marauder an hour’s march away, and the faint output of Tech’s data pad and their gear. 

“If by here you mean the middle of nowhere, then you are correct,” Tech grumbles, shrugging out of his pack and putting it against a tree. 

“It was Hunter’s turn to pick our shore leave,” Echo says diplomatically. “So middle of nowhere it is.” 

“I like it!” Wrecker booms, scaring away a bird that had been watching them from a nearby branch. “We haven’t been camping in ages!” 

Crosshair sighs. “What do you call what we just did on our last mission?”

“Just ‘cause we had to sleep outside doesn’t mean it was camping,” Wrecker says. “Camping means we have a campfire and don’t have to worry about getting our heads shot off by clankers.” 

“Now we just have to worry about our heads being bitten off by wild animals,” Crosshair retorts. 

Tech immediately cuts in. “There are no predators on this planet capable of such a feat. I made sure of it.” 

“See? I feel safer already.” Echo chuckles, pulling off his helmet and grinning at Hunter. “I think I’m gonna like this shore leave. We’ll have some peace and quiet if we can get these two to quit their whining,” he says, nodding at Crosshair and Tech. 

Echo receives twin expressions of indignation in response. 

However, that night, around the crackling warmth of the campfire, the complaints of the early afternoon are forgotten. The soft sounds of nighttime embrace them, soothing chaotic nature for something tranquil. They watch the stars overhead as things unreachable, winking pinpricks of light against a velvety, black canopy of sky. 

Hunter takes first watch, eager to enjoy the serenity they’ve found. Crosshair comes to sit next to him once their brothers have fallen asleep. He bumps his shoulder against the Sargeant’s, and Hunter nudges him back. They don’t speak for long, peaceful minutes, appreciating one another’s quiet company. 

“Do you think we could live like this? After the war?” Hunter asks at last, voice hushed. 

Crosshair doesn’t answer right away, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees, watching the flames of the fire dance and spark. “We’re soldiers,” he says, “we don’t know anything but war.” 

“We could learn,” Hunter says. “Adapt.”

Crosshair chuckles. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

It is the last time they have shore leave before their mission to Kaller. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter tries to remember the last words he said to Omega.

The last meaningful words. 

The last words she might remember him by. 

In case this mission goes wrong.

In case it was the last time he ever saw her. 

But he can’t remember. 

END

That's a wrap! [[On the eve of the Bad Batch series finale too!! 🥲]] 30 angsty prompts fulfilled in 30 days! I am honored to have gotten to collaborate alongside the endlessly talented @the-little-moment and @just-here-with-my-thoughts this month!

A master list post is coming soon with links to all 30 stories/chapters completed this month! So keep an eye out for that ☺️

Happy last Bad Batch eve, my lovelies! **sob**

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Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @merkitty49

[kybercrystals94]

Again 

Read here on Ao3!

Angstpril 2024 | Day 27 | Prompt 27: Panicked 

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Paralyzed by Fear 

Rated: G | Words: 446 | Summary: Crosshair struggles as they approach the facility on Tantiss. | Character Focus: Crosshair, Hunter, Wrecker

“...with me, Cross, breathe with me,” Hunter’s voice is saying. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” Crosshair chokes out, “I can’t go back, Hunter, please…” 

Hunter pulls back a moment and takes off his helmet, allowing Crosshair to see his face. “Listen to me,” he says, reaching out and catching Crosshair’s trembling hand. He holds it tight, and it hurts, the way Crosshair’s knuckles grind together in Hunter’s grip. “I’m not going to let them take you. You will not be their prisoner again.”  

“You don’t know that,” Crosshair whispers, “You can’t promise that. We promised Omega…” 

“I know,” Hunter breathes. He leans forward, presses his forehead against Crosshair’s. “I know. But I will give my life before I let them take any of you again. That I can promise you.” 

Crosshair doesn’t like that promise. He doesn’t want that promise. “Don’t say that,” he growls, though the quaking panic rattling his lungs makes it come out like a broken sob. Maybe it is. 

But Hunter doesn’t retract the promise as he pulls away, still gripping Crosshair’s hand. 

“Sarge,” Wrecker says, standing over them, watching for patrols while Crosshair falls apart. “We gotta…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to. 

We gotta go. We gotta go into the facility. We gotta find our sister. We gotta…we gotta…gotta…gotta…

Crosshair hates the whining sound he makes as another wave of panic crashes over him. I can’t. I can’t do this. Please, please don’t make me do this. Hunter…please…

Crosshair realizes he’s been verbalizing the thoughts of his tortured mind, letting them escape his lips like blood from a seeping wound, when Hunter replies to the spiral of anxiety. 

“Our chances are better together, Crosshair,” Hunter says, gentle firmness and calm. “We need you. Omega needs you.” And Hunter continues to exaggerate steady breaths, wordlessly inviting Crosshair to follow the pattern. He tries, pulling quavering breaths and shuddering exhales. Weak, weak, weak, weak…

“Cross,” Wrecker says, “You know we got your back, right?”

Crosshair manages to lift his head, look up into the familiar, expressionless visor of his biggest brother. He can’t trust his voice, so he simply nods, short and tight. 

Wrecker tips his head. “You can trust us,” he offers, and then adds, carefully, “and we trust you. You got our backs too, yeah?” 

Crosshair’s throat constricts, but this time it isn’t the panic or anxiety that makes it hard to breathe. He forces another steady breath. And another. And another. 

They trust him. They’re counting on him. His brothers. His sister. 

“Yeah,” he finally answers when he can trust his voice not to fracture on the syllable. 

He has to do this. 

END

@the-little-moment, @just-here-with-my-thoughts...*squints* I can see the finish line! We're so close!!

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[kybercrystals94]

Self

Read here on Ao3!

Angstpril 2024 | Day 21 | Prompt 21: Faking a Smile

Rated: G | Words: 238 | Summary: Omega tries. | Character Focus: Omega

She is supposed to be happy. 

To be free, to be with her brothers again, to be home. She has Lula and Trooper. Her gunner’s mount room just as she left it before…all of it. Before they lost Tech, before they lost her. The Marauder hasn’t changed in her months away, not that she expected it to. It feels different. Empty and sad and lost. 

But she should be happy. 

Hunter and Wrecker want her to be happy. Desperately. They want their Omega back. So Omega tries to resurrect her, to stretch the mindset of her old self over the growth and pain and loss and grief and guilt…but it only tears and rips apart, jagged edges, a throbbing reminder that nothing will ever be the same again. She thinks that her brothers know that. That she can’t be the same. That they aren’t the same. That time and experiences have worn them all down to shadows of who they were before.  

But she wants to be happy. 

So she pulls on a new version of herself. It fits loosely, but she’ll grow into it. Happiness will come again when she has grieved. Guilt will ebb when she makes reparations. Grief will melt into the memories of happier times as they are remembered. Loss will become gains, and pain will be soothed. Because that is one thing Omega hasn’t lost, hasn’t given up, hasn’t forgotten. 

Hope. 

@the-little-moment @just-here-with-my-thoughts, only 9 days left?? I can't believe April is almost over! I'm excited to finish strong with my writing buddies!!

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[kybercrystals94]

TRAGIC 😭😭😭😭😭

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 1.3 - Lost Battle

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch, Additional Clone Troopers Word Count: ~3810 Warnings: Minor Character Deaths Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: An attempt to engage the raiders ends up attracting unwanted attention from the native wildlife, costing the lives of even more of Mayday’s clone troopers.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes

The horizon belched a slick of oily smoke towards the sky. Mayday’s heart dropped as he watched it, pressing one hand to his com.

“Krake, come in.”

No response. Around him his troopers looked between each other, knowing dips of helmets bobbing through the squad before they turned almost as one to gaze out across the ice field to the crashed snow-bike.

Krake had leapt onto the snowmobile as the raiders had fled, barely clinging to the webbing they used to secure the crate of stolen cargo. It seemed like his intervention had stopped them getting away, but at a price.

Taking a deep breath, Mayday turned back to survey the depot. The entryway of the storage building smoked softly, the doors a mangled mess of metal from the detonator that had blown it open to admit the raiders.

“Ferox, reckon you can fix that?”

The engineer grunted. “Gonna have to, aren’t I.”

“Helix, Hexx, stay here and help him.” Mayday shouldered his blaster and tightened the wrap of fabric keeping the cold out of the neck of his armour. “The rest of you, let’s go retrieve the cargo… and our brother.”

The six clones set out from the base, past the edge of the hard-standing which was swept clear of snow and into the chilled wilderness beyond. Recon and Telmer walked in front, footfalls crunching through the thin crust on the surface of the snow to sink them into the powdery stuff beneath. Mayday and Veetch walked in their footsteps, and Atlas and Axis behind them.

The datapad hooked to his belt beeped. Mayday retrieved it and checked the screen.

[Seismic activity alert: Low]

Atlas had his rangefinder down, rifle to his shoulder as he surveyed their destination. “There’s movement out there, commander.”

Mayday failed to stifle a sigh. “Drop low to the ground, boys,” he instructed, doing so and noting that at least the scavenged strips of fabric tied around the joints of his armour were stopping the cold from getting in. He shook himself – it was no time to be worrying about the state of his knees.

The troopers followed their commander’s example without a word. It was almost impossible to spot white clone armour against the snow; better to risk the chill of the ground than stand out as targets against the darker background of the depot itself.

“Atlas?” Mayday asked roughly, and the sniper poked his head up, sighting along his scope again.

“Kriff,” he swore softly. “More bikes. They’re gonna grab the crate from the one Krake crashed.”

Blaster fire skimmed towards them across the bright white of the midday blind snow glare. Mayday dropped further, so close to the ground that his cuirass brushed the snow.

“Close the distance,” he ordered. “Atlas, keep them pinned down until we can engage.”

The air filled with the roar of snowmobile engines as a further two of the machines surged down from the pass to join the skirmish. The new bikes slewed in front of the downed machine, sending up a spray of snow to obscure their motions, but Atlas fired into it regardless.

Advancing as fast as they could despite the snow, Mayday’s squad quickly stormed the position and fought back against the men who tried to drag the stolen cargo from the damaged snowmobile to hook it up to their own. Blaster fire was traded, vicious in close combat.

The datapad’s beeping went unnoticed.

Using the damaged snowmobile for cover, it took mere minutes for Mayday’s squad to rout the would-be thieves. Abandoning their attempts to attach the crate to their remaining snow bikes, the handful of raiders who had been on-foot vaulted onto their companions’ rides to retreat. Clouds of snow were kicked up once more as the riders spun their machines away from the clones to flee back into the mountains.

Veetch ran forwards with a triumphant cry, raking blaster-fire after the retreating bikes before turning back to his squad and wrenching his helmet off to reveal his grinning face.

“Did you see that?” he crowed, leaping and punching the air enthusiastically. “We bring the fight to them, and they go running!” His eyes shone. “Better than staying inside the perimeter, right Commander? We should do this every time!”

Recon cuffed Veetch round the back of the head, then retrieved the younger clone’s helmet. “Krake died,” he admonished shortly. “Show some respect.”

“Cut the kid some slack,” said Telmer, taking Veetch’s bucket from Recon and returning it with a sympathetic smile. “It’s nice to have an easy win for once.”

Mayday stood slowly, gaze going past Veetch to the retreating snowmobiles. The raiders outnumbered them. The fact they abandoned their prize so easily made him uneasy.

His private com line chirped. Hexx’s voice sounded by his ear, tight with concern.

“Did you get the seismograph update?”

Mayday pulled the datapad from his belt again, tapping to activate the display.

[Seismic activity alert: Medium]

And, as he watched:

[Seismic activity alert: High]

He swore under his breath. The ‘low’ alert had been more than the readings from the incoming bikes. Turning to his squad he barked the command, “Back to the depot. Now.”

Axis looked up from where he was gently lifting Krake’s body from under the downed snowmobile. “Commander?” he asked cautiously.

Mayday quickly commed Atlas, the sniper still in position further out in the snow. “Atlas, return to base.” Then, muttered under his breath, “Ferox’d better make sure those kriffing beacons are working…”

“We’re on it,” came Hexx’s grim reassurance. “Just get yourselves back here as fast as you can.”

Pulling his helmet back into place, Veetch slung his blaster and moved to the crate. “I’ll help drag the supplies-”

“Leave them,” ordered Mayday.

“But sir-”

“They’re not important.”

Mayday knew the lie of his words, knew the Empire valued the unchanged count of boxes stored at the facility above the lives of the clone troopers guarding them. Right now it didn’t matter. His boys were in danger and he was going to get them back to the depot without risking more of their lives for inanimate cargo.

Unease spread through the squad, who started moving after Mayday with increasing speed. Axis had Krake slung over his shoulders, and Telmer and Recon walked either side of him with their blasters ready.

The tranquil snowscape erupted around them. In a shower of ice and roaring monster the frost wyrm breached beneath the spot the troopers had just abandoned, armoured head flinging the disabled snowmobile into the air.

Almost as one the clone troopers turned, necks craning up to watch the wyrm’s body stretch towards the sky with the sheer power of its lunge.

Over their heads a volley of rifle-bolts arced towards the wyrm. Mayday glanced along the snow-field to see Atlas crouched, barely visible against the surrounding snow-glare, scope trained on the new threat.

The creature’s thick, segmented body shuddered as the blaster bolts hit into it – an annoyance, nothing more. Slowly the mighty wyrm leaned, then crashed into the snow, blunt snout snapping and the great maw churning up the ground.

“RUN.”

Mayday’s command was almost redundant. His troops were already moving, scrambling over ground that shifted beneath their feet as the vast creature’s emergence fractured the permafrost beneath the snow.

Telmer and Axis raced ahead, quickly reaching Atlas who was still trying to hit the weak points on the wyrm’s armoured form. Mayday was close behind them, turning back to check for the last members of the squad.

Veetch and Recon were nowhere in sight.

The wyrm twisted atop the ice, angling straight towards the retreating clones – and the depot. Mayday risked a glance back, didn’t have time to take in whether the beacons were pulsing with their protective red lights. He brought his own blaster up, scanning the snowscape beneath the advancing wyrm through the scope.

“Recon, Veetch, come in.”

“I’m with Recon, sir,” came Veetch’s reply.

“Where is he?”

Recon responded with a grim laugh. “Trapped in the ice, Commander. Got my leg stuck in a fissure.”

Mayday glanced at the three troopers with him. “I’m going back for them.”

“Not alone,” said Axis immediately, letting Krake’s body slide to the ground beside his brother and pulling a thermal detonator from his belt.

Mayday huffed his begrudging acknowledgement. “Atlas, Telmer-”

“I’ll get Krake back to base,” volunteered Telmer. “Permission to access heavy ordnance?”

“Granted,” nodded Mayday. “Atlas?”

“Covering fire as best I can, Commander,” confirmed the sniper. “I’ll try and keep its attention off you.”

Mayday grit his teeth, then started running again. Outstripping him, Axis raced ahead, laying down his own blaster fire in the space between Atlas’ shots. The blue-glow blaster bolts from the clones’ rifles barely pitted the creature’s skull-plate.

Axis skidded in the snow, long slide bringing him into a defensive crouch until he lobbed the thermal detonator in a strong overarm throw.

The device rolled under the wyrm’s lunging body, the explosion swallowed by ice and armour. The creature thrashed from side to side, the thunderous clack of its snapping jaws reverberating from the nearby mountains.

Beneath the layer of snowfall the ice crust creaked ominously. Atlas and Axis didn’t let up their volley of fire, working to keep the wyrm distracted by their attacks instead of noticing the other clone trooper closing on it.

At last Mayday spotted Veetch flagging him down and angled his path to bring him close – far too close for comfort – to where the wyrm heaved its body along the ice to pursue the twins.

Without Veetch, he doubted he would have found Recon. The clone was well below the level of the surrounding ground, soft snow cascading into a crack that had opened up in the lower layer of permafrost. Recon’s blaster was discarded, the clone scrabbling with both arms to try and maintain his purchase on the sliding snow. One leg and hip disappeared into the dark crevasse beneath him. The other knee was caught on the edge of the lip of ice, and slipping.

As soon as Mayday was close Veetch flung himself to the ground, spreading his weight on the treacherous snow lest he sink also. He stretched his rifle out to Recon, the struggling clone grabbing onto the barrel and holding tight.

“Good to see you,” panted Recon as Mayday appeared at Veetch’s side.

Mayday carefully skidded down the shifting snow, chancing his weight on the ice beneath. The snap and pop of fracturing permafrost could be heard despite the blanket of snow on top of it.

“Recon. Grab my hand.” Mayday reached out cautiously, feet spread wide to keep his balance on ground which trembled with every movement of the gargantuan wyrm. From their position in the pit he could no longer see the creature, but it’s presence was a constant danger.

Recon loosed one hand from the rifle, straining to reach Mayday’s outstretched hand. On the edge of the fissure his knee slipped, and his whole body plunged deeper into the crack.

Veetch and Recon’s startled cries echoed in synchronicity, and Mayday fought every instinct that told him to lunge and catch his fallen trooper. Recon scrabbled at the edge of the ice, up to his armpits in the crevasse now, forearms failing to find purchase on the slick ice.

Ice creaked, and Recon grunted. With a snap a huge crack appeared in his cuirass, white plastoid fracturing to reveal the black body-glove beneath.

“The ice is shifting as the wyrm moves,” gasped Veetch, breathless and fraught. “C’mon, Recon, you have to get up!”

The black visor of Recon’s helmet tilted up, gazing at Veetch.

The ice closed, vice-like. Blood misted from the seams of Recon’s armour as his torso was crushed between the shifting ice-plates.

“Recon!”

Almost as fast as it had closed the ice was pulling apart again, splintering, and now great chunks began to drop into the wyrm channels beneath. Recon’s body slithered helplessly away. Mayday threw himself to one side, landing prone in the snow, then whipped his head around in time to see Veetch sliding uncontrollably towards the now gaping crevasse. He lunged, trying to catch the rifle still in Veetch’s outstretched hand.

Cold-numbed fingers closed around the barrel and held fast. Mayday grunted as Veetch’s descent stalled with a jerk, held fast as snow cascaded past him whilst the young clone scrambled to avoid being drawn into the vortex of crumbling ice.

“I’ve got Veetch,” Mayday grit into the com as he struggled to his feet, grabbing his trooper and hauling him the rest of the way to safety. “Fall back!”

Veetch staggered against Mayday as they reached the lip of the pit, both hands clinging to his commander’s shoulders.

“Recon… I couldn’t…”

“No time for that, kid,” muttered Mayday.

Limbs weighted by weariness despite the adrenaline coursing through his body, Mayday dragged them upright and skirted round the brittle ground near the wyrm. Their pace was unsteady, Veetch trembling under his firm grasp.

The ground continued to quake as the creature thrashed, body convulsing with powerful waves as it lunged towards the clone troopers who harried it.

“Commander.” Hexx’s calm voice sounded through the com. “Telmer is on his way back to you. Ferox… advises that we don’t rely on the beacons. Karking Empire have got a lot to answer for, posting us out here without the equipment to keep us safe.”

Veetch stumbled. Mayday caught him again. “Come on, lad. Nearly there.”

Axis and Atlas were fighting a running battle, never staying in one spot long enough for the wyrm to strike. Each time it readied for an attack the brothers went scrambling away, criss-crossing their tracks in the deep snow. Mayday and Veetch reached them at almost the same time Telmer did, heavy kit box containing the outpost’s single rocket launcher in tow.

Axis dove past where Mayday and Telmer were wrenching the box open. “Last one,” he called with false cheer as he lobbed another thermal detonator towards their target.

The device chinked against the permafrost, then rolled and dropped into the crevasse from which the wyrm had emerged.

A distant, muffled thump was the sound of the detonator exploding. The wyrm threw its head back with a cacophonous screech, body going rigid, vertical; then inexorably, under the weight of gravity, it slid down beneath the ice and out of view.

The six troopers stood in a daze, numbed by the sudden silence of the battlefield. Mayday had the rocket launcher in his hands, Telmer almost ready to load the first warhead. Atlas straightened from his position hidden in the snow, walking forwards, and Axis clapped a hand to Veetch’s shoulder, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” asked Veetch in a trembling voice. “Did we kill it?”

“Doubt it,” said Axis as lightly as he could muster. “Probably just blew a deeper hole in the ice. Let’s get out of here before it comes back.”

Mayday quickly checked the datapad. [Seismic activity alert: High]

“Back to the outpost, everyone,” he ordered shortly. The more experienced troopers moved instantly, but Veetch edged towards the crater left by the frost wyrm.

“Veetch,” called Telmer, firm but not unkind. “Come on.”

“Recon… R-Recon’s down there,” stammered the young clone, turning back to look at his brothers, his posture imploring. “We have to recover his body.”

“Later, Veetch,” said Mayday with calm finality.

“A-and the cargo. Th-the Empire’ll-”

“Screw the Empire,” snorted Atlas softly.

Axis slung his blaster, heading back towards the youngest member of their squad. “Hey,” he said, gently coaxing. “C’mon. Let’s head back.”

“Recon’s dead,” said Veetch. “I couldn’t save him. I just watched.”

“You didn’t ‘just watch’.” Mayday’s voice was gravelly. He stood, resting the launcher on his shoulder. “You did everything you could.”

“You heard the commander,” said Axis reassuringly. “I bet Recon knew it too. Now come on, we need to get back. It’s not safe out here.”

He rested a hand on Veetch’s shoulder, steering him away from the edge of the pit. Veetch allowed himself to be guided, standing a little straighter and blaster coming back to his hands in readiness.

The ground heaved. The two clones froze and exchanged a look.

Unhesitating, Axis threw Veetch forwards, the younger clone stumbling into the others and whipping round as the gigantic monstrosity erupted from the ground once more, demolishing the edge of the ice.

It was all they could do to watch in horror as Axis was snagged on the jaws of the wyrm as it breached, flung into the air to be caught by the churning maw, a pulsing, grinding channel of muscle and teeth. Then Atlas was shouting, a wordless cry, levelling his rifle to fire into the fleshy mouth. Telmer and Mayday were moving as one, Telmer loading the rocket, Mayday sighting through the rangefinder.

The jaws crunched closed once, twice on Axis’s shattered body, before the frost wyrm turned its broad head towards the remaining clone troopers and lunged.

The rocket flew, whistling on its short journey. The warhead arced into the creature’s throat and lodged there, embedded in the fleshy folds between teeth.

The explosion blew a hole through the back of the creature’s head, burnt scraps of gore and viscera flying free. With a dying exhale the wyrm heaved to a halt, smoke curling from its now slack maw, the ground tremoring and then settling as it crashed into the stillness of death.

Mayday lowered the rocket launcher slowly, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Behind him Telmer sat suddenly, adrenaline abandoning him. Atlas fell to his knees, rifle sliding from his grip. Veetch was stock still, trembling like a leaf.

The datapad beeped.

[Seismic activity alert: None]

*

The outpost was subdued. Mayday had ordered them to move all the crates of cargo from the damaged storage unit into the main building, lest the raiders try and take advantage in another strike. That job had taken them the rest of the daylight hours; now evening, and inactivity, gave them time to process their losses.

Ferox’s face was painted in a dark, teary glower, eyes red-rimmed from the furious tears he had shed over losing their brothers; most of all over losing Recon, who had been with him since before the Barton IV assignment.

He sat with Helix and Telmer, the three of them talking in low voices, making disinterested plans to repair the damaged storage unit. Occasionally they would fall quiet and watch as Veetch paced past, the young clone restless and agitated, gaze darting wildly about the enclosed space like he was seeking an escape.

By contrast Atlas sat in numb silence, gaze distant and unfocused as his hands trembled around a rapidly cooling mug of caf. Hexx had tucked a blanket closely about his shoulders but the shaking in his body was nothing to do with the cold. He hadn’t spoken a word since carrying his batchmate’s broken body back to the depot.

Mayday and Hexx stood by the main door, armoured and ready for duty. Ferox had brought the beacons back online, but Mayday had suggested he would man the watchtower as well, as added security. Hexx had simply geared up without question.

Helmet in hands, Mayday paused, his gaze roving over the remaining members of his small squad. Then he laid it down, heading to his locker.

He came back holding a sealed bottle of Correlian brandy, the amber liquid glinting in the low light of the depot.

He tossed the bottle to Ferox, then pointed at Veetch.

“Get him drunk,” he instructed flatly. Then he turned a sympathetic gaze on Atlas. “Probably him, too.”

Telmer and Helix leaned in to inspect the bottle with interest. “Where did you get this?” asked Ferox, his curiosity reluctantly piqued as he cracked the seal and inhaled.

 “I was saving it,” said Mayday shortly. “For something special. Celebrate the end of this posting, maybe.” He glanced again at the haggard troops, barely half of them left from his original command of twelve. “Seems as good a time as any to open it now.”

“You joining us for a drink, commander?” asked Telmer softly.

Mayday shook his head. “You boys relax.” He knew how hollow it sounded. “Me and Hexx will be outside if you need us.”

The two older clones walked a perimeter patrol of the depot before heading to their post in the watch-tower. Twilight cast long shadows over the valley, the sun hidden behind the mountains and the sky lit in a pale wash of blue with the last of the dying sunlight.

Mayday climbed the sentry tower, then removed his helmet to survey the churned snowscape. His hair and beard whipped in the wind, snow crystals settling on the lengths and not melting. Hexx climbed silently to his side, leaning his forearms on the edge and letting it take his weight.

“Gotta admire them,” Mayday commented after a time.

“What?”

“The vultures.” He indicated the huge dark birds which clustered in vast numbers around the fallen ice wyrm. Some circled overhead. silhouetted against the dusky sky. Others pecked and tore at the red shreds of flesh hanging from the soft inside of the wyrm’s slack, dead jaws.

Hexx merely grunted, shifting his position to ease the ache of cold from his frame.

“They’ll go after anything. No prey is too big. They’re making a tidy job of stripping that carcass.”

“Good thing we got our brothers back to the depot then,” muttered Hexx bitterly.

“At least they died.”

Mayday’s voice was odd, soft and strained. Hexx turned to look at him, studying the faraway look in Mayday’s brown eyes.

“Commander?” probed Hexx, tone laden with gentle concern.

“We’ve got no medic. We’ve got next to no med supplies. Better they died out there, quickly, than slowly and in pain from their injuries in here.”

Mayday’s usual bite of sarcasm was absent. He merely sounded exhausted.

“We’re losing this battle,” he continued softly, voice almost lost to the dancing wind. “Against this planet. Against this posting.”

“’Keep fighting, show the Empire what us clone troopers are made of’,” quoted Hexx. “Isn’t that what you said?”

Mayday snorted a humourless laugh. “I thought you didn’t believe in all that.”

“I believe in you,” said Hexx loyally. He nudged Mayday’s helmet in his hands. “Put that back on, before you freeze out here.”

Something that was almost a smile ghosted against Mayday’s lips before he did as Hexx bid, replacing his bucket and tightening the wraps to keep the cold out.

“Think those boys will leave any drink for us?” he asked.

Now it was Hexx’s turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”

Mayday sighed. “That’s fine. They deserve it. They deserve… so much more than this.”

Hexx didn’t reply.

The two clones watched the ruined scene of battle on the horizon until darkness swallowed it. And kept watching long into the night.

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 stories:- Day 3 - Broken Hearted Day 6 - This Isn't Going To Work

[kybercrystals94]

Focus Up

Read here on Ao3!

Angspril 2024 | Day 15 | Prompt 15: Confrontation

Rated: G | Words: 816 | Summary: A training exercise doesn't end the way the siblings expected. | Character Focus: Omega, Hunter, Echo

Slight content warning...someone gets a bloody nose.

“Focus up, Omega!” Echo calls from the sidelines when Omega’s gaze drifts again to the sparkling white beach and frothing surf. 

Omega turns her head to look at Echo and misses Hunter’s quick sweeping motion that knocks her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling forward across the soft, silty ground. Pushing herself up, Omega spits out a mouthful of grit. “That isn’t fair,” she growls, “Echo distracted me.” 

“You distracted yourself,” Hunter chides gently. “Do you think your enemies will wait for you to be focused before they strike?” 

“No,” Omega huffs, rolling over into a sitting position. “But why do we have to train today? I’ve never been on a beach before, and Wrecker promised he’d show me how to build sandcastles.” 

Hunter smiles at her and holds out a hand. “There’ll be time for fun after training. C’mon, let’s go again.” 

Omega takes his hand and Hunter hauls her up to her feet.

“Get in position,” Hunter says.

Halfheartedly, Omega changes her stance. Hunter adjusts her left elbow and right shoulder, and lightly kicks the heel of her boot to make her bring her foot up. “Good. Now bend your knees a little more, keep your center of gravity low.” 

“Will my enemies wait for me to get into position?” Omega snarks irritably. 

Omega is slightly annoyed when Hunter chooses endless patience instead of reacting. “With enough practice, getting into position will be second nature.” 

Once her brother is satisfied with her posture, he stands in front of her, slipping into his own familiar placement. “Start!” 

Omega is a flurry of frustrated movement, going through the maneuvers she’s been taught while Hunter easily blocks each strike. With a surge of adrenaline, Omega decides to try something different, wanting to catch Hunter off guard. She goes for an uppercut, which Hunter starts to block; however, she aborts the movement just before making contact and dives for his knees. Hunter isn’t ready for the sudden attack, and is nearly toppled; however, he moves to recover his balance. As he disentangles himself from Omega’s grip, his knee comes up and catches her hard in the nose. 

Omega lets out an involuntary yelp of pain, her vision going black for a moment as her body registers the blow. Falling back, she cups her hands over her nose, already leaking blood. She isn’t crying, but tears run down her face and blur the image of Hunter kneeling in front of her. 

“Move your hands, let me see,” his voice is saying over the roaring in her ears. She gives a tiny shake of her head, but Hunter gets more insistent. “I need to check if it’s broken, Omega.”

 Gingerly, Omega lowers her hands, being careful not to touch them against her clothes. Not that it matters with blood dribbling down her chin and neck. 

Hunter inspects the damage, gently prodding the cartilage. “Doesn’t seem to be broken. That’s good. Here, lean forward a bit and pinch here.” He guides one of her hands up to do as he says. “Echo’s getting a cold pack.”

Omega groans, closing her eyes as tears continue to escape without her permission. “I’m not crying,” she tells him, her voice sounding funny with her nose plugged. 

“I know you’re not,” Hunter soothes, patting her shoulder. 

“That’s one way to get out of training for the day,” Echo’s voice says beside her. 

Something soft and chilled presses lightly against the bridge of her nose. Omega hisses in surprise. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” she protests weakly. 

“We know, kid,” Hunter says. “And good job. You almost got me there.”

Echo chuckles. “Getting an injury during training is like a right of passage.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Omega,” Hunter mumbles. 

Omega grins behind her hands, peeking one eye open to look at Hunter. “But I almost knocked you down? Really?” 

“You should’ve seen his face,” Echo says. “If I had taken a holo, we would’ve gotten a good laugh out of that for years to come. I guess we’ll just have to settle for describing it in great detail to Wrecker and Tech later.” 

Hunter frowns over Omega’s shoulder where Echo is situated. Omega giggles, the pain and tears of her injury nearly forgotten. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Omega adjusts Eva’s left elbow and right shoulder. She nudges Eva’s heel to prompt her to shift forward. “There,” Omega whispers. “Keep your knees bent. Good.” 

“This will help us to fight?” Eva whispers. 

Omega can’t train these children as her brothers trained her. She can’t teach them to throw a punch, or hold a blaster, or how to avoid detection. However, she can give them a foundation, as small as it might be. She can teach them to slip into position until it’s second nature, until her brothers find them and rescue them. 

Smiling grimly, Omega puts a reassuring hand on little Eva’s shoulder. “It’s a start.”

END

@the-little-moment and @just-here-with-my-thoughts 😱 This is the halfway mark??? YAY! Go team!! 15 more angsty prompts to go 😇

(Make sure to check out all of our stories this month for ultimate heartbreak!)

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Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @groguandthebadbatch @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @merkitty49

[kybercrystals94]

The end of this chapter made me cry 😭

I would quote it, but I want people to be properly heartbroken by reading this whole chapter 💔

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.4 - Grief

gif from @midnightdjarin

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday Word Count: ~3875 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Commander Mayday was grievously wounded during the avalanche. As Crosshair insists on carrying him back to base, Mayday reflects on his regrets.

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

The churning and tumbling had stopped. All around him was still, the weight of snow pressing and compressing his body so that he could barely hold the breath in his lungs.

And yet, through his closed eyelids, Crosshair sensed light. That meant he must be near the surface.

He began to struggle, thrashing his way through the seductive cold of the ice until he reached air, eyes shooting wide open as a gasping breath heaved into his body.

His chest burned from the time without air – how long had he been under the ice, at the mercy of the avalanche? And still the seductive cold of that whispering grave pulled at him, sapping his strength, willing him to lie down and sleep.

He fought the urge with a physical shake, pulling his arms free of the snow and righting himself. Dimly he realised he had lost his helmet. Perhaps that explained the cold, but also why his enhanced eyesight had noticed the faint filtering of light that guided him here. If he’d been shuttered behind the tinted visor, he might have stayed beneath the surface until suffocation took him.

The mountain air bit against bare skin already numbed from being submerged in the ice, so cold it burned. Crosshair grit his teeth together to keep them from chattering and tried to recall what had happened.

The avalanche, no doubt triggered by the resonance from the cave collapse. Running.

Mayday, pushing him out the way of danger.

Stumbling, falling.

Mayday’s body, swept up and dashed against a boulder with a sickening crunch. The last sound he had heard before his world became ice and snow.

Mayday.

Glancing around at the near-featureless expanse of white left by the avalanche’s destruction, Crosshair tried to pinpoint something, anything, to get his bearings. There was the mountain peak –the tunnels they came in by had most surely been buried in the surging snowfall.

A tiny spur of dark rock jutted up from the surface. Something constricted in Crosshair’s chest and, fighting the chest-high snow every step of the way, he began to head towards it.

Instinct, more than logic, saw him scrabble at the snow around the boulder, franticly sweeping at the surface until his numbed fingertips met resistance. His hands shook so much that delicacy wasn’t an option, but he did his best to be gentle as he brushed the snow aside.

He unearthed a familiar helmet, powdery ice crystals clinging to the fabric and grubby plastoid. It tilted easily, empty.

A rising tremor of panic shuddered through Crosshair’s body as he dived back into the snow. Now his gloved hands found hair, and flesh, and he grasped broad shoulders to pull the buried commander to the surface.

As he broke free of the ice Mayday choked a sodden breath, his body reacting automatically to the air. His eyes were closed, skin pale with cold, beard almost white with snow.

"Mayday... Mayday!"

It felt awkward to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar syllables of the reg commander's name. He'd spent the whole time avoiding it, not wanting to give the impression of connection.

But now the instinct to call him by name came as easily as saying Echo, or Tech.

A soft groan in response was enough to assure him that the commander was surfacing from unconsciousness. Crosshair gave him another shake, leaning in close, breath clouding the air between them from his desperate, open-mouthed gasps.

“Mayday, wake up!”

Dark brown eyes fluttered open, glazed with confusion. Mayday tilted is head to the side, a weak cough signalling his return to awareness.

“Come on.” Crosshair barely recognised his own voice, the urgent plea in his tone. “We have to move.”

Mayday lifted a trembling arm from the snow, grasping weakly for Crosshair. The sniper caught his hand, ready to haul him up, but Mayday pushed him away.

“Go.” His voice was no more than a wheeze, and his eyes closed as another wet cough racked his body. As the spasm passed his breath hissed out in a sigh, his face contorting with agony. “I won’t make it.”

Crosshair paused his efforts, gaze roving over the commander’s face. Then he reached for the other clone’s helmet, carefully lifting Mayday’s neck so he could slide the protective headwear back into place.

Mayday choked a laugh through the vocoder as Crosshair looped his arm under his shoulders, gently positioning his body alongside Mayday’s and lifting him to his feet.

“Stubborn, aren’t you.”

Crosshair didn’t reply. Mayday was dead weight against him, unable to stand by himself.

“Where’s your bucket, lad?”

The sniper shook his head, taking a fighting step through the snow, hauling Mayday with him. “Lost in the avalanche.”

“Got your rifle?”

Crosshair paused, startled, his sudden stop pulling another grunt of pain from the commander. He hadn’t even thought about his rifle.

He cast his gaze back along the trough of disturbed snow where he had fought his way to Mayday. The dark metal of his firepuncher was half-buried where he had originally surfaced.

He could almost hear the weak grin in Mayday’s voice as he said, “Never known a sniper get separated from his rifle.”

“I had other things on my mind.”

Crosshair carefully eased Mayday back into the snowbank before wading back along the channel to retrieve his rifle.

Some deep part of his mind was horrified that he had let it go. It had been in his hands when the avalanche struck. He was trained never to leave himself defenceless. Countless missions, years worth of training; no matter how bad things got, the only way to get his rifle out of his hands was to pry it from his unconscious fingers.

And yet, fighting his way from the ice, his only thought had been to find Mayday.

Making his way back to the commander, Crosshair carefully lifted him again. Maday sagged against him, and he took the weight gladly.

This time he didn’t bother with reassurances, fighting the chattering of his teeth. He merely set his sights on the horizon and began to walk.

*

Mayday heaved another shallow inhale past the stabbing pain in his lungs, light-headed as the gasping breaths failed to deliver enough oxygen to his system. Every staggered step through the snow jarred his injuries, still unchecked, but there was no need to stop and assess them.

He was dying.

His memories following the avalanche were hazy. Crosshair’s voice had come to him as if from a long way off, tinged with desperation. He’d fought his way towards the sound, command instinct compelling him to reassure the younger trooper.

As consciousness gripped him and pain swamped his senses, he’d realised he wasn’t making it back to the outpost. Better to tell Crosshair to go on alone.

A command the sniper ignored. Instead he’d dug Mayday out of the snow, gentle as he could be when he cried out in pain, then carefully lifted his body to help him walk.

Not that Mayday was doing much walking. Crosshair was half-dragging him, Mayday’s own legs too unsteady to take him more than a few steps at a time.

But still the sniper carried him. So much for his earlier dismissive attitude.

A faint, distracted smile curled Mayday’s lips inside his helmet. He’d seen Crosshair’s façade for what it was early on, recognised the self-imposed distance that only those who truly cared – and had been truly hurt – ever exhibited.

He leaned a little more heavily into the sniper. Despite his acid demeanour, and all the rumours about the CT-99s, Crosshair cared. He could have left him in the snow and didn’t. Even when Mayday told him to.

Now it was Crosshair’s turn to stumble, almost going down in the snow. Mayday dropped to his knees beside him, trying to get his blurred vision to focus on the sniper’s narrow face. The thin clone was wracked with whole-body shudders, his armour not meant for the weather, what little body heat he had rapidly being lost through his unprotected head. His brown eyes were narrowed in a determined glare, but it took him two tries to push to his feet again.

Still, Mayday didn’t try and rise immediately. Instead his hands went to the strips of dirty fabric binding his chest, numbed fingers barely able to find the ends, and started to unwrap it.

Crosshair turned wearily, ready to help the commander stand, and stopped when he saw what Mayday was doing. He huffed an open-mouthed breath, too tired to speak, but the question was in his eyes.

“Gotta cover your head,” muttered Mayday by way of explanation, swallowing against pain as he moved his arms stiffly to unwrap the fabric. “Gotta keep you warm.”

Piercing brown eyes studied him as he wound the length of fabric round his hands, slowly revealing the white clone trooper armour he wore beneath.

His cuirass began to crumble. He’d been hiding the cracks in it for so long he’d almost forgotten them. Now, without the cloth wraps holding it together, the entire chest plate began to disintegrate.

He saw the soft horror in Crosshair’s questioning gaze and swallowed, summoning an explanation.

“Standard clone plastoid… isn’t designed for prolonged exposure to the cold. It goes brittle, cracks.” He panted with the effort of speech. “Doesn’t soak an impact, but it’s better than nothing. Least it’s another layer again the cold.”

Crosshair dropped to his knees with a strangled protest, stopping Mayday’s hands. His gaze was on the ground between them, unable to look at him.

Mayday lifted a trembling hand, clapped it clumsily against Crosshair’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. But the sniper covered his hands with his own, taking the bundled strips from him. Then he lifted the sliding bottom section of the cuirass back against Mayday’s ribs, beginning to ravel it back into place.

“What’re you doing?” slurred Mayday. “You’ll freeze without this.”

“So will you, if your armour falls off your body,” bit Crosshair, annoyance his tone, a mask for fear. He batted Mayday’s hands away and quickly resecured the bindings.

Mayday sagged forwards, forehead of his helmet coming to rest against Crosshair’s pauldron. “I’m gone anyway,” he said softly, a bitter chuckle sending lancing pain though his ribs to choke the sound off with a gulp. “You need to get yourself out of here.”

“Shut up,” snarled Crosshair, pulling Mayday’s arm back across his shoulder, heaving him to his feet. With his other hand he retrieved his rifle, thumping it butt-down into the snow. He levered himself against the rifle, starting their stagger forwards once more, feet dragging through the snow.

Mayday couldn’t contain the mewl of pain as he stumbled against the sniper, something in his chest dragging and stabbing further at the already damaged parts of him. Crosshair paused, a flash of concern crossing his drawn features. Mayday quickly shook his head, a silent plea not to worry, and forced his injured body to stand straighter.

Crosshair was exhausted. Just as exhausted as Mayday. And if Mayday didn’t keep walking, Crosshair wouldn’t either. He’d sit by his side and let the snow take him.

The question now was how long could he hold on, for Crosshair’s sake.

*

Day passed as a brightening of the snowstorm that turned the whole world to white. Night descended with it dulling to grey once more.

Through it all the two clone troopers trudged wearily on. Hunger gnawed at Crosshair’s insides, a familiar emptiness. They’d brought no rations.

Each time his long eyesight picked out an ice vulture circling overhead, he wondered if it would be the one to feast on their corpses.

But somehow they fought on. At his side, Mayday struggled through the snow, barely able to stand at times against the driving wind. Sometimes his arm slithered from around Crosshair’s neck as he collapsed to the ground, lost to the brief respite of oblivion that claimed him.

Crosshair had no such respite. Each time he lifted Mayday once more, draping the unconscious commander across his back and finding some inner reserve of strength to carry him.

Mayday always awoke before long. The movement of walking jostled him, starting him groaning as he came back to wakefulness. Crosshair didn’t investigate. There was nothing he could do about whatever injuries were hidden inside his armour, and the exposure would kill him first if he tried to inspect them. Better to ignore his cries of pain, and keep walking. Get back to the Outpost.

It was their best chance of survival.

No amount of dogged determination could keep Crosshair walking forever. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. They’d walked all night to reach the raider’s base, then most of the day after the avalanche. That was without however long he’d been awake before that, nervously awaiting the mission, the flight to Barton IV and the fight at the depot.

Sleep was an alluring idea, but seductive though it was some deep-seated self-preservation told him it was impossible. A rest though. Just a short break, sheltered from the wind and driving snow, a chance to gather his reserves to continue. He could spare the time for that.

Not that there was anywhere sheltered enough to stop. He’d carry on. They’d walk a bit further. Surely he’d find somewhere they could stop.

The storm increased its ferocity. True dark enveloped the mountain, the kind even Crosshair struggled to see in. Still no shelter.

Crosshair could hear the commander’s laboured breathing through the vocoder of his helmet. He felt every grunt of pain that shuddered through the man, transmitted to him where their bodies pressed close together.

They had to stop. Mayday couldn’t go on.

Reluctantly Crosshair steered them towards the wall of the mountain. It wasn’t shelter. Not really. But the nook in the cliff-face was enough to rest against.

Levering himself up the slope with his rifle, Crosshair all but collapsed to sit against the rock-face, tucking his back against the dark wall. Mayday followed him down, half-staggering, and without thinking Crosshair wrapped his arm around Mayday’s body and pulled him close.

It was meagre comfort, his body too numb to feel the contact. But he draped his other arm over them too, rifle coming to rest across their laps. In response Mayday curled into him, knees and arms coming up as his helmet rested against Crosshair’s shoulder, a sigh of relief escaping him as his body sank against the sniper’s.

Crosshair tilted his face against him, ignoring the chill of the ice-crusted fabric as he pressed his cheek to Mayday’s helmet. He had to keep his mind busy. Couldn’t let sleep creep up on him.

Had to get them back to the outpost.

Had to save Mayday.

*

“Geo and Dene died in a snowstorm.”

Mayday’s broken laugh pulled Crosshair from the edge of slumber and he sat up with a jerk, startled by the unexpected comment. He settled his expression into a frown, pulling his arms, which had slackened, more tightly around Mayday.

“Ray of sunshine, aren’t you,” he grit out between chattering teeth. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It was my fault. I ordered the patrol.”

Crosshair didn’t know what to say to that. He chose to stay silent, but at least Mayday’s words had given him the jolt of adrenaline needed to stave off sleep.

The commander was no longer shaking. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Should’ve done better. Should’ve done more to protect my men.”

Mayday’s voice faded in and out, the edges of his words blurred by pain.

“That’s what a leader does. He protects his squad.”

A real leader protects his squad.

Look where that’s gotten you. They’re all going to die here because of your failed leadership.

Crosshair’s stomach seized, a churning sensation that would have made him feel nauseous if he’d eaten anything in the last thirty-six hours. Instead it was just cramps, almost indistinguishable from hunger pangs, except for his brother’s voice echoing in his memory.

“You did what you could,” he muttered, the platitude sounding hollow even as he said it.

“Should’ve done more. Should’ve… should’ve fought harder to get the Empire to send supplies.”

Crosshair’s answer was a bitter scoff. “You’re one man. The Empire weren’t going to listen to you.”

He hated himself as he said it. Hated the bitter taste of truth as he refuted his own delusions to reassure the other man.

For a moment Mayday fell silent. His head went heavier on Crosshair’s shoulder, and for a moment Crosshair feared he’d passed out. Then, “I’m failing you. Just like I failed them.”

“Shut up.” His voice shook. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Guilt was compounding Mayday’s grief over the deaths of his men, and Crosshair risked being pulled into the vortex of his despair. His brown eyes roved over Mayday’s helmet, snow-crusted and tucked so close to his chest.

He brought one arm around Mayday’s shoulders, giving a squeeze that he didn’t know if the cold-numbed commander would feel through his armour. His eyes stung hot despite the ambient temperature, and he pressed them shut before tears could freeze on his lashes.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he repeated in a shattered whisper. “Please don’t say that.”

He felt Mayday shift against him, didn’t open his eyes. Just held tighter, until Mayday straightened, righting himself so he leaned less heavily on him.

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

Crosshair grunted, easing his eyes open and letting his gaze relax over the swirling snowstorm outside their huddled position. He didn’t ease the pressure of his arm around Mayday.

“Been with him since the beginning. Thought I’d see the end with him, too. Never thought he’d go before me.”

His voice wavered, regret leaching into his words. “Kriff, I never imagined I’d have to go on without him.”

“You’re a trooper,” said Crosshair flatly. “You know the risks.”

“Yeah. Just… we’d survived everything up ‘til now. Almost survived this.”

Mayday’s voice grew stronger the longer he talked, like the train of thought was staving off unconsciousness. Crosshair wanted to tell him to be quiet, to keep his doubting, draining words to himself. He couldn’t find the heart to.

“I was just a shiny when we met. Fresh out of Kamino. He had green paint, but it was so new it didn’t have a scratch on it. He wasn’t much older than me.”

Crosshair huffed a soft breath of disbelief. That wasn’t forever. Him and his brothers had been together forever. Ever since he was a cadet, too tiny to remember a time before his brothers were his world.

Part of him wanted to stay quiet and listened to the older clone talk. Part of him burned as Mayday’s unsteady voice evoked those jealous, bitter thoughts about his own past.

“I remember after the order. Scouring our paint off. Stripping the armour back to white.” Mayday choked on a wet cough, the spasm wracking his body and causing him to collapse weakly against Crosshair once more. “Still saw green hexagons every time I looked at him. Couldn’t… couldn’t understand it at the time. Why the Empire wanted us all the same.

“Veetch never got to paint his armour. Never got… never got a lot of things, that boy. Lived on Barton IV, and died here too. Not much of a life.”

Crosshair thought of the two troopers who had shadowed Mayday when he first arrived at the base. They had both looked battle-worn and weary to him, their armour scarred by the elements and similarly bound by dirty wraps, just like Mayday’s.

He didn’t know which had been Veetch, and which had been Hexx. Usually he didn’t worry about that sort of thing. But now he was ashamed.

Mayday’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Tell me about your squad.”

With a surprised exhale, Crosshair almost laughed. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“What colours did you wear? Before the Empire put you in this.”

Mayday’s knuckles rapped weakly against Crosshair’s chest-plate. Crosshair caught the other clone’s hand in his own, wrapping his fingers round Mayday’s, for what little good the extra warmth would do.

“Grey and red,” he said, barely recognising the voice as his own. “Ash grey and blood red.”

Mayday’s feeble chuckle reverberated though their closely pressed bodies, and Crosshair found the sound elicited a wild, hopeful light in him. He rested his forehead against Mayday’s bucket, squeezing his eyes shut as he begged a maker he didn’t believe in to spare the commander, just a little longer.

“You clone commandos always were extra,” wheezed Mayday past his laugh. “Poetic.”

Crosshair found a shaky, shuddering laugh was drawn from him too, so unfamiliar that he panicked to hear it and clamped his jaw shut. When was the last time he laughed?

He didn’t remember. Too long. Not since before.

Before the order.

And now here he was, facing death in the freezing wilderness, and it felt hysterical and freeing to laugh.

Agonising, and cathartic, to let Mayday needle the memories of his brothers, like drawing poison from a wound too long unattended.

He replied at length, squeezing Mayday’s numb fingers in his own. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

“How was your armour painted?”

“With a crosshair. And skulls.”

Mayday’s snorted laugh set off another coughing fit, and Crosshair scrambled to his knees, leaning the commander forwards and holding him until it passed.

“A crosshair,” panted Mayday at last. “That’s on the nose.”

Crosshair just huffed a laugh, settling them back into their nook. The storm still raged, but somehow it seemed further away now.

“And skulls?”

A nod. “Yeah. All of us had them.”

“I’d’ve liked to see that.”

Crosshair lapsed into quiet, his thoughts turning inwards.

His stomach burned hot and sick with resentment, bile gathering behind his teeth as he remembered how they left him. But his fingers, numb inside his gloves, had other plans. With a trembling hand he reached up, began to trace the traitorous pattern on Mayday’s helm.

Half a skull. Even as he tried to shut out the thought, it was impossible to ignore the parallels between the long-haired commander and his estranged brother. His fingers skimmed through the crust of ice on Mayday’s helmet, picking out the pattern in perfect relief.

“They left me behind. After the order.”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to crack. Hadn’t meant for the sob to escape.

Now it was Mayday’s turn to fold his arms around him, drawing Crosshair close against his chest.

“I know, lad. It’s okay.”

Fourteen months since the order. Fourteen months under Imperial control.

Hunting his brothers down. Not understanding the buzzing in his head that wanted them dead.

Then wanting them to suffer the way that he had suffered.

Before they had left him. Again.

Something inside Crosshair broke. As inexorable as the avalanche had been, the tide of grief he had been holding back burst through the brittle dam of his self-control. The howl that ripped from his lips rivalled the wind, anger and sorrow mingling as his so-long repressed fears refused to be chained inside his heart any longer.

Mayday held him as he shook apart. And continued to hold him as they finally slept.

*something something broken armour Mayday showing Crosshair the fractures in his soul allowing Crosshair to feel his own loss*

I gave passing consideration to concise storytelling and then decided to completely disregard that in favour of writing whatever I liked to my heart's content. So sorry not sorry for the long chapter I guess :)

How are you feeling, beloved readers? There is only one more Angstpril prompt for me to fill: Day 29, Betrayal. I'm sure you all know where this story is heading.

Have you enjoyed all the stories this month? It's been great to work on this challenge in partnership with @kybercrystals94 and @the-little-moment! Keep an eye out for our last few stories, and the eventual master-post rounding up all our fics :)

[kybercrystals94]

The beginning of the end for our boy Mayday 😭😭😭😭

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.3 - Swept Away

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday Word Count: ~1375 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: With Crosshair at his side, the two of them easily storm the raider’s mountain base. Mayday wonders about the legacy the clone troopers leave behind. Crosshair makes an unexpected admission.

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

Once the rocks stopped tumbling to fill the cave mouth, the mountain rang with silence.

Crosshair turned to survey his work, lowering his rifle with little satisfaction. It had been a quick way to end things; targeting the crate of explosives to collapse the mountain cavern network, instead of tackling another wave of raiders rallying from inside their base.

Not that they had struggled with the combat. He had been reluctantly impressed at how the reg commander, a blaster in each hand, had stormed the encampment with ruthless efficiency. Crosshair had worked with command-class clones in the past, and they were the only ones who were even close to operating on the same level as him and his brothers.

Don’t think of them.

Eliminating the raider’s base with the reg commander had almost – almost – reminded him of the mission on Desix with Commander Cody.

He had known he would work well with Cody; there was no doubt about that. They had a long history together.

What he hadn’t expected was for Mayday to shadow his movements so effectively, bringing the brutal skirmish to such a quick conclusion.

There was something to be said about the ferocity of men with nothing left to lose. The hollowness that radiated out from the commander threatened to consume Crosshair too.

Mayday faced down death and the elements on the word of an officer he didn’t respect, because he was loyal.

Loyal to the Empire.

And Crosshair was at his side because the commander also carried the intense loyalty to his clone brothers that the sniper had never understood, but had found himself on the receiving end of in the tunnels.

Mayday had no business saving him from the pressure mine. It had been his own idiotic mistake to trigger it. If it had been him, he would have scoffed at the reg commander and left him; not worth the risk of accidentally detonating the mine whilst trying to disarm it, just to save one man.

But Mayday had thought it worthwhile. When he had brushed off Crosshair’s ingratitude with little more than a resigned chuckle, it made something inside Cross burn all the brighter.

The faint, creeping sensation of eyes on his back shivered up his spine – the reassuring version, the one where those eyes were his brothers’, watching out for him just as he watched out for them.

He’d had that, briefly, when Cody had requested him for Desix. Then the Marshal Commander had absconded.

Rampart’s insidious voice sounded in his mind again. Clone loyalty doesn’t seem to be as advertised any more.

Crosshair thought Cody had had his back, but the Marshal Commander abandoned him. Just like his brothers had.

He couldn’t bear to confront the nauseating fear that Mayday might do the same.

*

“Crosshair.”

“What?” Crosshair’s tone was short, but without his earlier aggression.

Mayday gestured down the mountainside, towards the snowmobile which had crashed and spilled its pallet of crates after Crosshair shot the driver.

“Let’s load the cargo and get out of here.”

Although it was night, the whiteness of the snow bounced the little light from the sky around, giving them enough to see by without drawing their torches. Sliding to a stop in the powdery snow, Mayday pulled off his helmet, loosing his unkempt hair to the wind and feeling the bite of the icy chill against his cheeks. Behind him Crosshair mimicked the action, tucking his helmet under his arm, silent and observant.

Mayday faltered as he approached the downed skiff. His eyes skipped over the tumult in the snow, the once-smooth surface marred by scattered debris where one of the cargo crates had burst a seam at the impact and spilled its contents into the night.

White on white. Gleaming plastoid against powdery mountain snow.

“Gear?”

The edge of Mayday’s voice shook. The fingers of his free hand dug into the seams of his own armour, curling against the coarse fabric wraps keeping the cold out.

“We’ve been risking out lives to recover equipment we could have been wearing this whole time?”

He sensed more than saw the sniper come to stand at his shoulder.

“It’s not clone trooper gear,” said Crosshair. The way he softened his voice at the acknowledgement spoke volumes.

“Right.” Mayday dragged the word out into a derisive snort. “New toys for their shiny new military, and we get the scraps.”

Holstering his blaster, he knelt and scooped up a cuirass from the snow, turning it to inspect the item. A coldness that had nothing to do with the mountain night curled around his chest, constricting, forcing bile to his throat.

“We were good soldiers.” The words choked past a knot of fury and sorrow. “We followed orders. And for what?”

His companion remained silent. That was fine by Mayday. He didn’t want to hear the sniper’s brand of biting commentary right now.

He dropped the cuirass in disgust, kicking it towards the other items spilled from the fractured crate.

“For three years we fought in the war,” he continued, his voice low, words spoken mostly for himself. “Earned their freedom with our blood, and never asked thanks. It’s what we were made for.”

Now he turned to Crosshair.

“Do you think they’ll even remember us?” he asked, fixing the lean sniper with a piercing stare.

Crosshair held his gaze despite its intensity, brow furrowed in a frown. He’d drawn a toothpick from somewhere, and his teeth clenched around it as he shrugged a response to Mayday’s question.

Mayday continued. “I heard the rumours about phasing out clone troopers. I didn’t really believe them until now.” His face twisted in a glare, one hand scrubbing over his face and beard as he sought to control himself. “What does that even mean? They just let us die, and not replace us?” His voice shook with anger. “I heard Kamino was destroyed. Does that mean… the end of us clones?”

Something flickered behind Crosshair’s eyes, an expression quickly shuttered. He turned his face away from Mayday, letting his gaze go long over the mountainside.

“It was.”

Mayday stared at him blankly. “What?”

“Kamino was destroyed,” said the sniper through clenched teeth. “I was there.”

Taking a careful couple of steps, Mayday positioned himself in Crosshair’s eyeline. The sniper still tried hard to avoid looking at him.

“You were on the Empire’s ships.”

“No,” said Crosshair, and his voice was barely more than a breath shuddering up from his chest. “I was in the city.”

For a moment the wind dropped away to nothing, and now Crosshair met Mayday’s eyes. Behind that hard exterior there was a fracture of fear, wide-eyed and frightened, and Mayday’s breath seized to realise how young the other clone must be.

Not much older than Veetch.

A rumbling, rushing started up. Blood in his ears.

Except Crosshair was reacting to it too. Whipped his head round to gaze up at the mountain peak, far above the destroyed cavern.

To where icy death tumbled down the mountainside towards them.

Reacting on instinct, Mayday pulled his bucket back on and clapped Crosshair on the shoulder. “GO!” he roared, and he was already running, adrenaline driving fatigue and fear from his body as his long legs ate up the ground and he raced, heedless, down the mountainside.

In moments Crosshair had drawn level with him, helmet in place also. The two clones, light armoured and dark, slid and sprinted wordlessly through the night, racing from the devastation which descended from high to sweep them away.

The avalanche would catch them. Thousands of tons of snow and ice gathered speed, must faster than their exhausted bodies could hope to outrun it.

Mayday scanned their path for something, anything, that might offer safety. Somewhere to shelter. To hope the wave of snow would crest over them and spare them.

Looming from the darkness, a jagged boulder jutted up from the mountain surface, black and forbidding.

“Look out!”

Shoving Crosshair to one side, Mayday watched as the tall clone tumbled head over heels, the unexpected push breaking his momentum.

Then the snow was on them and Crosshair was lost to his view, and the crushing wall of ice swept him against the boulder and everything went black.

I'm baack! Did you miss me?

I missed the proper posting date for this prompt which was due on the 23rd, but I hope you enjoy this chapter now it's here. Thank you to my wonderful writing buddies @kybercrystals94 and @the-little-moment for your patience and support!

Hopefully Day 26's chapter 'Grief' will be finished over the weekend.

Need more angsty Bad Batch stores in the meantime? We're using the #littlekyberthoughts tag for our joint Angstpril challenge - you can find all our fics there!

[kybercrystals94]

Not me forgetting that I know how this is gonna end 🥲😭

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.”

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

[kybercrystals94]

I can’t give just one favorite quote from this part, because it was ALL perfection. How dare you make me even MORE heartbroken over this already traumatizing episode??? 😭

But I truly loved this story 🥹 Thank you for sharing it with us, @just-here-with-my-thoughts!!

And congrats on completing your 10 prompts!! You’re a superstar!!

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.5 - Betrayal

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday, Lieutenant Nolan Word Count: ~1640 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: As Mayday’s life leeches out into the snow, Crosshair takes a stand.

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

The hum of a shuttle soaring overhead was the first sign they were nearing the depot. Then the cargo transports came into view, flying in formation, scattering a nearby spiral of ice vultures which screeched in protest at having their serene airspace disturbed.

Crosshair kept his face upturned to the sky long after the shuttles had passed beyond the mountain ridge, tracking the sound of their engines. He heard the pitch of their engines change to a high whine, knew they must be landing.

Which meant they were almost back at the outpost.

Mayday had slumped so bonelessly against his side when he stopped, that he had a hard time jostling the man to movement again.

“Mayday… come on. We’re almost there.”

Mayday groaned as he staggered forwards two steps before stopping again, shaking his head.

“I can’t.” With a tremor that shook his whole body he crashed to his knees, sliding through Crosshair’s grasping arms before the sniper could catch him. For a moment he teetered, knelt up high, before slumping forwards into the snow.

Crosshair was at his side instantly, rolling him over, lifting his shoulders to cradle him against his chest. The commander’s body was leaden, barely able to take his own weight.

“Sorry to let you down, lad.” Mayday’s voice bubbled wetly through the vocoder, choked with remorse.

“You’re not letting me down.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a reassurance, or an instruction. From the way Mayday huffed a pained laugh, he guessed the commander had taken it as the latter.

Crosshair stroked his shaking fingers across Mayday’s helmet, dusting away snow until he could see clean plastoid. “Come on. Just a little bit further.”

This time he gave his rifle to Mayday, letting the man use it as a crutch. It wasn’t like it was needed for its real purpose right now.

A terrifying, yawning pit inside him wondered if he’d ever raise a rifle for the Empire again.

*

A cacophony of cries greeted their appearance as the two clones gained the edge of the hard-standing.

“Over there-”

“Look! It’s them!”

Crosshair’s gaze slid across the clean, white armour and blank black visors that stared back at him. Almost half the Imperial troopers had abandoned their tasks, gravitating towards the returning clones.

Mayday’s heartache at being forced to strip his armour paint echoed in Crosshair’s mind. The clones had fought so hard for their individuality. And here were the Imperial soldiers, disparate men from disparate worlds, all lining up to be subsumed; to dress as one, act as one, to turn their free thought over to the will of the Empire.

Crosshair couldn’t remember now which part of him had wanted that so badly. Could barely remember why he had fought – pleaded – demanded that Hunter join him.

He’d had such high hopes when it all began. The Empire promised a bright future for those who proved their loyalty. He was one of the elite, and he was going to take advantage of everything the Empire had to offer.

Him and Wrecker, standing in the newly furnished armoury. Tears glazing his eyes at the promise of the greatness they would attain.

“Step aside, step aside!”

The piercing voice shattered his rumination. Raising his head wearily, Crosshair locked eyes with the blue-eyed glare of Lieutenant Nolan.

The man didn’t cross to meet them. He ordered the Imperial troopers away, then stood and watched every laboured step that Crosshair took – that Mayday took – to draw closer to him.

The rifle barrel skidded on the hard floor, sending the gun sliding out from its position as Mayday’s crutch. The commander sagged and Crosshair barely caught him, managing to hold him upright as he walked determinedly to face Nolan.

He felt lightheaded, his consciousness floating somewhere outside his body. It was like someone had hollowed out his bones and poured a sweet cushion of sedative in there instead. Vaguely, he was aware that it was fatigue and lack of food; but that small, logical voice was lost amongst the suffocating rise of anxiety that swelled in his gut at the Imperial’s cold stare.

Mayday’s feet dragged, then caught on a seam in the ground. He dropped to his knees, plastoid clacking and cracking against the hard surface. Crosshair eased him down until Mayday was on the floor, unable to do more than lay there and pant.

He stayed at his side, tilting his haggared face up to Nolan with eyes squinting against the sun-bright sky.

Nolan merely sniffed, pale nose pink with the cold.

“About time you two returned.”

Crosshair’s breath came unevenly, staccato gasps as his sides burned with acid buildup. He’d been walking so long that now he had stopped, he could no longer silence his muscles’ screaming protest.

Still, he managed to gasp out his plea.

“He needs a medic.”

As if to punctuate his remark, Mayday’s chest spasmed in a weak, sodden cough. For the first time since the avalanche Crosshair brought his hands to Mayday’s helmet, gently releasing the seals and lifting the protective gear from the commander’s head.

Mayday’s skin was ashen, eyes rolling to whites in his head. Blood rimmed the white of his teeth and flecked his lips as another spasm shuddered through him.

Nolan didn’t move. He kept his hands behind his back, toes neatly turned out as he surveyed the fallen clones.

“I see you didn’t retrieve the crates… which means you’ve failed your mission.”

Crosshair braced both hands against the floor, dropping his head briefly between his shoulders. Then he looked up again, pain etched into his features.

“Did you hear what I said? Help him!”

The lieutenant gave an irate sniff. “Certainly not. That would be a waste of the Empire’s resources.”

Now Crosshair dropped his gaze from the lieutenant, unable to stare into those cold, impatient eyes as he spoke. He took two breaths, trying to steady his voice.

It almost worked.

“He’ll… He’ll die.”

He hadn’t meant for the plaintive note to creep into his words, but now as Mayday choked on a bubble of blood in his throat Crosshair didn’t care what the lieutenant thought of them. He leaned down, placing one hand carefully on Mayday’s shoulder and tipping him onto his side until the trickle of blood drained from the corner of his mouth, dripping into his beard, onto the frozen floor.

Mayday’s eyelids fluttered, the faintest of smiles curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Glad I got… t’meet you… Crosshair.”

The Imperial was forgotten as Crosshair pressed his hands to Mayday’s cheeks, bending to rest their foreheads together. He scrunched his eyes shut, mouth crumpling with threatened tears.

“You can’t go.”

“Sorry, lad. These things happen.”

Crosshair bared his teeth in a grimace to bite back his howl, rage at the unfairness of it all burning through him.

The commander’s voice was so faint, Crosshair had to strain to hear the scratchy words.

“Don’t give up.”

Then his breath shuddered out, an exhale without end, and he was gone.

Crosshair clawed his fingertips against Mayday’s beard, choking on a sob. With infinite tenderness he laid the commander’s head against the hard floor of the depot, then turned his desolate gaze back to the lieutenant.

Nolan merely watched him with narrowed eyes.

“He served his purpose as a soldier of the Empire,” he intoned callously.

Wracked with grief, Crosshair shook his head. Words growled up from his chest in a voice he barely recognised.

“You… you could have saved him.”

Now Nolan stepped towards him, looming over the sniper where he sagged on his knees.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” His voice was thin and threaded with disdain. “He is expendable… as are you.” His ice-blue eyes narrowed with such vehement hatred that Crosshair shrank back, positioning himself protectively in front of Mayday’s body. “And if you speak to me again with such disrespect…” His gaze flicked briefly to the dead commander, disgust curling his lip. “I’ll see to it you meet a similar fate, clone.”

Crosshair heaved in a breath, brown eyes wide with agony as his gaze riveted on the Imperial’s.

“Now leave him, and get back to work… whilst you’re still useful.”

And that was it. Nolan was turning away, grinding his heel into the ground, to walk straight-backed towards the cargo pallets once more. Leaving Crosshair alone with Mayday.

Mayday. After all his promises, Mayday still betrayed him. Still abandoned him for the embrace of death.

No. Mayday didn’t betray him. The Empire did.

The lieutenant could have acted. Could have ordered the medics to save Mayday’s life.

Despairing, Crosshair tilted his head back as far as his neck would crane, gazing up into the blank expanse of the sky.

How had he been so blind? With all his enhanced sight, he hadn’t seen what the Empire was about until it was too late. Too late to undo the damage.

Mayday didn’t choose to leave him. The Empire tore him away with their callous disregard the clones’ lives.

A lone ice vulture wheeled across the sky, it’s harsh call echoing off the mountains.

Galvanising Crosshair to action.

If things couldn’t be mended, they could be avenged.

Briefly Crosshair dropped his chest to curl in on himself, glancing to the side from the cave of his arms to scan Mayday’s face, contorted with pain. No peace in death.

He grit his teeth together at the surge of fury that summoned, and with the last vestiges of his strength pulled to his feet.

“Lieutenant.”

The word was an insult. A demand. Look at me.

The man turned, face already twisting in a scowl.

Crosshair’s left arm raised. A pistol was in his hand, the rarely-used sidearm levelled at the lieutenant’s chest.

Nolan’s eyes widened. Realisation flickered in the panicked dilation of his pupils.

It only lasted a moment before Crosshair shot.

Aaaaand we're done! (Well not quite... we all know Crosshair eventually returns to the Outpost, so stick around for the epilogue which will be posted in the coming days)

But we're done with my contribution to the #littlekyberthoughts Angstpril writing challenge! 10 prompts across the month of April, 1 angsty multi-chapter fic... I hope you have enjoyed reading!

As ever big shout out to writing buddies @the-little-moment and @kybercrystals94, Kyber will be providing the final fic of Angstpril tomorrow and then Little-Moment will follow up with a roundup of all our posts.

But the hugest thank you for this fic goes to my awesome teenager! When I was invited to do this challenge I didn't have a clue what to write, and had no idea how I was going to fill even one prompt, let alone all ten. Then my kiddo said, "Can you write a story about Mayday and his squad for the Frozen prompt?" and the rest fell into place! (Sorry kiddo for making you cry with Part 2.4, please forgive me...)

Have you enjoyed reading? Had a favourite chapter? Have you been with Mayday since the beginning, or did you join the story with Crosshair in Part 2? Drop me a comment to let me know what you thought, I've had so much fun writing this fic and I'd love to know what you thought :)

[kybercrystals94]

@just-here-with-my-thoughts Mayday and Crosshair taking care of each other in the last part about broke me 😭💔 But I LOVED it!!

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.5 - Betrayal

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday, Lieutenant Nolan Word Count: ~1640 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: As Mayday’s life leeches out into the snow, Crosshair takes a stand.

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

The hum of a shuttle soaring overhead was the first sign they were nearing the depot. Then the cargo transports came into view, flying in formation, scattering a nearby spiral of ice vultures which screeched in protest at having their serene airspace disturbed.

Crosshair kept his face upturned to the sky long after the shuttles had passed beyond the mountain ridge, tracking the sound of their engines. He heard the pitch of their engines change to a high whine, knew they must be landing.

Which meant they were almost back at the outpost.

Mayday had slumped so bonelessly against his side when he stopped, that he had a hard time jostling the man to movement again.

“Mayday… come on. We’re almost there.”

Mayday groaned as he staggered forwards two steps before stopping again, shaking his head.

“I can’t.” With a tremor that shook his whole body he crashed to his knees, sliding through Crosshair’s grasping arms before the sniper could catch him. For a moment he teetered, knelt up high, before slumping forwards into the snow.

Crosshair was at his side instantly, rolling him over, lifting his shoulders to cradle him against his chest. The commander’s body was leaden, barely able to take his own weight.

“Sorry to let you down, lad.” Mayday’s voice bubbled wetly through the vocoder, choked with remorse.

“You’re not letting me down.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a reassurance, or an instruction. From the way Mayday huffed a pained laugh, he guessed the commander had taken it as the latter.

Crosshair stroked his shaking fingers across Mayday’s helmet, dusting away snow until he could see clean plastoid. “Come on. Just a little bit further.”

This time he gave his rifle to Mayday, letting the man use it as a crutch. It wasn’t like it was needed for its real purpose right now.

A terrifying, yawning pit inside him wondered if he’d ever raise a rifle for the Empire again.

*

A cacophony of cries greeted their appearance as the two clones gained the edge of the hard-standing.

“Over there-”

“Look! It’s them!”

Crosshair’s gaze slid across the clean, white armour and blank black visors that stared back at him. Almost half the Imperial troopers had abandoned their tasks, gravitating towards the returning clones.

Mayday’s heartache at being forced to strip his armour paint echoed in Crosshair’s mind. The clones had fought so hard for their individuality. And here were the Imperial soldiers, disparate men from disparate worlds, all lining up to be subsumed; to dress as one, act as one, to turn their free thought over to the will of the Empire.

Crosshair couldn’t remember now which part of him had wanted that so badly. Could barely remember why he had fought – pleaded – demanded that Hunter join him.

He’d had such high hopes when it all began. The Empire promised a bright future for those who proved their loyalty. He was one of the elite, and he was going to take advantage of everything the Empire had to offer.

Him and Wrecker, standing in the newly furnished armoury. Tears glazing his eyes at the promise of the greatness they would attain.

“Step aside, step aside!”

The piercing voice shattered his rumination. Raising his head wearily, Crosshair locked eyes with the blue-eyed glare of Lieutenant Nolan.

The man didn’t cross to meet them. He ordered the Imperial troopers away, then stood and watched every laboured step that Crosshair took – that Mayday took – to draw closer to him.

The rifle barrel skidded on the hard floor, sending the gun sliding out from its position as Mayday’s crutch. The commander sagged and Crosshair barely caught him, managing to hold him upright as he walked determinedly to face Nolan.

He felt lightheaded, his consciousness floating somewhere outside his body. It was like someone had hollowed out his bones and poured a sweet cushion of sedative in there instead. Vaguely, he was aware that it was fatigue and lack of food; but that small, logical voice was lost amongst the suffocating rise of anxiety that swelled in his gut at the Imperial’s cold stare.

Mayday’s feet dragged, then caught on a seam in the ground. He dropped to his knees, plastoid clacking and cracking against the hard surface. Crosshair eased him down until Mayday was on the floor, unable to do more than lay there and pant.

He stayed at his side, tilting his haggared face up to Nolan with eyes squinting against the sun-bright sky.

Nolan merely sniffed, pale nose pink with the cold.

“About time you two returned.”

Crosshair’s breath came unevenly, staccato gasps as his sides burned with acid buildup. He’d been walking so long that now he had stopped, he could no longer silence his muscles’ screaming protest.

Still, he managed to gasp out his plea.

“He needs a medic.”

As if to punctuate his remark, Mayday’s chest spasmed in a weak, sodden cough. For the first time since the avalanche Crosshair brought his hands to Mayday’s helmet, gently releasing the seals and lifting the protective gear from the commander’s head.

Mayday’s skin was ashen, eyes rolling to whites in his head. Blood rimmed the white of his teeth and flecked his lips as another spasm shuddered through him.

Nolan didn’t move. He kept his hands behind his back, toes neatly turned out as he surveyed the fallen clones.

“I see you didn’t retrieve the crates… which means you’ve failed your mission.”

Crosshair braced both hands against the floor, dropping his head briefly between his shoulders. Then he looked up again, pain etched into his features.

“Did you hear what I said? Help him!”

The lieutenant gave an irate sniff. “Certainly not. That would be a waste of the Empire’s resources.”

Now Crosshair dropped his gaze from the lieutenant, unable to stare into those cold, impatient eyes as he spoke. He took two breaths, trying to steady his voice.

It almost worked.

“He’ll… He’ll die.”

He hadn’t meant for the plaintive note to creep into his words, but now as Mayday choked on a bubble of blood in his throat Crosshair didn’t care what the lieutenant thought of them. He leaned down, placing one hand carefully on Mayday’s shoulder and tipping him onto his side until the trickle of blood drained from the corner of his mouth, dripping into his beard, onto the frozen floor.

Mayday’s eyelids fluttered, the faintest of smiles curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Glad I got… t’meet you… Crosshair.”

The Imperial was forgotten as Crosshair pressed his hands to Mayday’s cheeks, bending to rest their foreheads together. He scrunched his eyes shut, mouth crumpling with threatened tears.

“You can’t go.”

“Sorry, lad. These things happen.”

Crosshair bared his teeth in a grimace to bite back his howl, rage at the unfairness of it all burning through him.

The commander’s voice was so faint, Crosshair had to strain to hear the scratchy words.

“Don’t give up.”

Then his breath shuddered out, an exhale without end, and he was gone.

Crosshair clawed his fingertips against Mayday’s beard, choking on a sob. With infinite tenderness he laid the commander’s head against the hard floor of the depot, then turned his desolate gaze back to the lieutenant.

Nolan merely watched him with narrowed eyes.

“He served his purpose as a soldier of the Empire,” he intoned callously.

Wracked with grief, Crosshair shook his head. Words growled up from his chest in a voice he barely recognised.

“You… you could have saved him.”

Now Nolan stepped towards him, looming over the sniper where he sagged on his knees.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” His voice was thin and threaded with disdain. “He is expendable… as are you.” His ice-blue eyes narrowed with such vehement hatred that Crosshair shrank back, positioning himself protectively in front of Mayday’s body. “And if you speak to me again with such disrespect…” His gaze flicked briefly to the dead commander, disgust curling his lip. “I’ll see to it you meet a similar fate, clone.”

Crosshair heaved in a breath, brown eyes wide with agony as his gaze riveted on the Imperial’s.

“Now leave him, and get back to work… whilst you’re still useful.”

And that was it. Nolan was turning away, grinding his heel into the ground, to walk straight-backed towards the cargo pallets once more. Leaving Crosshair alone with Mayday.

Mayday. After all his promises, Mayday still betrayed him. Still abandoned him for the embrace of death.

No. Mayday didn’t betray him. The Empire did.

The lieutenant could have acted. Could have ordered the medics to save Mayday’s life.

Despairing, Crosshair tilted his head back as far as his neck would crane, gazing up into the blank expanse of the sky.

How had he been so blind? With all his enhanced sight, he hadn’t seen what the Empire was about until it was too late. Too late to undo the damage.

Mayday didn’t choose to leave him. The Empire tore him away with their callous disregard the clones’ lives.

A lone ice vulture wheeled across the sky, it’s harsh call echoing off the mountains.

Galvanising Crosshair to action.

If things couldn’t be mended, they could be avenged.

Briefly Crosshair dropped his chest to curl in on himself, glancing to the side from the cave of his arms to scan Mayday’s face, contorted with pain. No peace in death.

He grit his teeth together at the surge of fury that summoned, and with the last vestiges of his strength pulled to his feet.

“Lieutenant.”

The word was an insult. A demand. Look at me.

The man turned, face already twisting in a scowl.

Crosshair’s left arm raised. A pistol was in his hand, the rarely-used sidearm levelled at the lieutenant’s chest.

Nolan’s eyes widened. Realisation flickered in the panicked dilation of his pupils.

It only lasted a moment before Crosshair shot.

Aaaaand we're done! (Well not quite... we all know Crosshair eventually returns to the Outpost, so stick around for the epilogue which will be posted in the coming days)

But we're done with my contribution to the #littlekyberthoughts Angstpril writing challenge! 10 prompts across the month of April, 1 angsty multi-chapter fic... I hope you have enjoyed reading!

As ever big shout out to writing buddies @the-little-moment and @kybercrystals94, Kyber will be providing the final fic of Angstpril tomorrow and then Little-Moment will follow up with a roundup of all our posts.

But the hugest thank you for this fic goes to my awesome teenager! When I was invited to do this challenge I didn't have a clue what to write, and had no idea how I was going to fill even one prompt, let alone all ten. Then my kiddo said, "Can you write a story about Mayday and his squad for the Frozen prompt?" and the rest fell into place! (Sorry kiddo for making you cry with Part 2.4, please forgive me...)

Have you enjoyed reading? Had a favourite chapter? Have you been with Mayday since the beginning, or did you join the story with Crosshair in Part 2? Drop me a comment to let me know what you thought, I've had so much fun writing this fic and I'd love to know what you thought :)