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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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Welcome To The Outpost: Part 3.0 - Epilogue

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: "Going Into Hiding'

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

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

This is it people, the feature-length finale!

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

I know a facility.

Remote.

Understaffed.

Shouldn’t be a problem to infiltrate.

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

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

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

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

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

His armour.

Wrecker had saved it for him.

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

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

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

He supposed to the others that was reassuring.

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

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

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

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ash grey and blood red.

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

It almost bubbled up again now.

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

A crosshair. That’s on the nose.

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

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

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

Trust Tech to go through his belongings without permission.

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

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

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

Crosshairs and skulls.

Ash grey and blood red.

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

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

“Hey, it does fit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t go.

But he wasn’t going to say that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how do you know that?”

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

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

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

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

Let them think the worst of him.

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

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

That he had done it for a reg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Echo leaned over her shoulder, inspecting the readout.

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

“On it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a memorial any more. Just cast-offs.

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

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

Twelve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mayday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the ground rumbled and fractured beneath them.

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

“Move!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not alone. We’ll do it together.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hunter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some brother he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try not to think too hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death didn’t come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An acknowledgement. An olive branch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had held love for the men he had lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hunter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission’s a mission.

Yeah, I used to say the same thing.

"I never gave up on you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“They weren’t your squad.”

“No.”

“You weren’t stationed here?”

“…No.”

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

Crosshair swallowed thickly. What happened here?

Two snow-bound planets.

On Kaller, something inside him died.

On Barton IV, it was reborn.

“The commander of this squad…”

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

“He saved my life.”

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

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

Don’t give up.

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

“………His name was Mayday…”

And that's a wrap!

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

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

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

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

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kybercrystals94 · 7 months ago

Text

The Last Time

Read here on Ao3!

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

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kybercrystals94 · 7 months ago

Text

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 · 7 months ago

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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!!

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @nagyanna424 @groguandthebadbatch @proteatook @merkitty49

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#Angstpril2024 #Day 21 #Prompt 21 #Faking a Smile #the bad batch #star wars #tbb omega #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #angst #memories #the bad batch season 3 #littlekyberthoughts #fics by Kyber

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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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.

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.

Read Part 2.5 - Betrayal

*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 :)

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day26 #grief #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #tbb crosshair #crosshair #ct 9904 #crosshair & mayday #crosshair and mayday #littlekyberthoughts

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kybercrystals94 · 7 months ago

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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

#Angstpril2024 #day 15 #prompt 15 #confrontation #the bad batch #star wars #Star Wars the bad batch #tbb hunter #tbb omega #tbb echo #the bad batch season 3 #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #little kyber thoughts #littlekyberthoughts #fics by kyber

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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Welcome To The Outpost - MASTER LIST

Have you been following my Mayday & Crosshair fic 'Welcome to the Outpost'? Here's a complete list of all chapters, in case you missed one or just wanted to go back and re-read :)

1.1 - Frozen Mayday’s squad of 12 have been on Barton IV for months. When the power in the outpost fails the troopers have to huddle together for warmth – but they can’t forgo perimeter patrols as the power outage also means the sensors have failed.

1.2 - Rise From The Ashes 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.

1.3 - Lost Battle 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.

1.4 - No Way Out A request for extraction is ignored, with Imperial orders reiterating that Mayday and his remaining squad members are to keep the base secure and protect the cargo at all costs.

1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place Mayday, Hexx and Veetch are the last survivors of the squad of 12 initially assigned to the Barton IV outpost. Supplies are dwindling and the relief ship is overdue.

2.1 - Last Chance The Imperial relief ship finally arrives, marking the end of the squad’s long posting on Barton IV. Mayday is surprised to see a CT-99 listed on the crew roster.

2.2 - Broken Mayday might have lost his squad, but a new mission – and a new companion – gives him focus. After all, Crosshair doesn’t know how to survive out here.

2.3 - Swept Away 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.

2.4 - Grief Commander Mayday was grievously wounded during the avalanche. As the sniper insists on carrying him back to base, Mayday reflects on his regrets.

2.5 - Betrayal As Mayday’s life leeches out into the snow, Crosshair takes a stand.

3.0 (Epilogue) - Return To The Outpost When circumstances force a return to the doomed outpost on Barton IV, Crosshair has a chance to confront Mayday's memory and all he taught him about loyalty.

With thanks to the awesome @chaos-company for hosting the #Angstpril writing event! I've enjoyed turning the 10 prompts I chose from the month into a multi-chapter fic that has been breaking hearts. Maybe next year I'll upgrade to the full 30 prompts to be a completionist :)

#angstpril2024 #the bad batch #tbb fanfic #commander mayday #tbb crosshair #welcome to the outpost #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 8 months ago

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Welcome to the Outpost: Part 1.1 - Frozen

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch, Additional Clone Troopers Word Count: ~1570 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Mayday’s squad of 12 have been on Barton IV for months. When the power in the outpost fails the troopers have to huddle together for warmth – but they can’t forgo perimeter patrols as the power outage also means the sensors have failed.

“I’ve run every diagnostic I can, Commander. The fault is with an external component. And I can’t replace it until this blizzard dies down.”

Ferox’s breath puffed cloudy in the air of the generator room. Mayday frowned, glancing about the equipment.

“There’s no way to bring the backup generator online?”

“It won’t make a difference. It’s the feed from the generators to the rest of the base that’s the problem. I can repair it, but not in these conditions.”

Mayday nodded reluctantly. The storm had howled in from the mountain pass just before sundown, plunging the outpost into early night; a darkness only enhanced when the lights failed as the power cut out.

“Back to the main depot,” he ordered, pulling his helmet on before heading into the swirling snowstorm outside.

Mayday folded his arms and surveyed his squad, clustered tightly round the portable heat generator. “With the perimeter sensors down, we need to manually patrol the depot.”

“It’s not the first time they’ve failed,” muttered Dene. A rumble of discontent greeted his observation.

“I’ll send a request for replacement parts as soon as the power’s back on and we have access to long-range coms again,” promised Mayday. “In the meantime, pair up. I want patrols offset to cover as much of the perimeter at once as we can.”

“Raiders would have to be crazy to be out in a storm like this,” said Veetch with a laugh that rang just a little hollow.

“We’d have to be crazy to be out in a storm like this,” said Telmer disdainfully. “Our gear isn’t designed for cold-weather operations.”

“Insulate it as best you can,” supplied Hexx, stepping to Mayday’s side. “The commander has given you your orders.”

Mayday nodded grimly. “It’s vital we guard this cargo, boys. We all know that. Can’t let an equipment malfunction stop us from doing our jobs properly, can we?”

His voice lifted at the end, just a hint of sarcasm. Identical grins spread across identical clone faces. They all knew the Commander’s thoughts about the dead-end assignment guarding this depot until the cargo was retrieved. Six months on Barton IV had bonded the squad closely, but hadn’t generated any further enthusiasm for the task itself.

The squad broke apart with their usual banter, falling easily into their roles. Geo and Dene took the first patrol. The others dragged bedding from the bunks to the heat generator, their best chance of staying warm without heating in the base.

Hexx clapped a hand to Mayday’s shoulder. “Veetch is right. Raiders’d be mad to be out in this. It’s going to be an uneventful night.”

Mayday huffed a dry chuckle. “I hope you’re right.”

“Move over.”

“Geez! You’re freezing.”

“Yeah, it’s snowing out there in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“No, that one had passed me by.”

The grumbling continued as the huddled clone troopers shifted to allow the returning pair into the centre of the pile. From the outer edge two of the troopers peeled away to go and kit up, taking their turn on patrol.

Hexx hissed in displeasure as an ice-cold body pressed against him, dragging him from the edge of sleep.

“Kriff, Veetch! You’re stealing my body heat,” he complained, even as he wrapped his arms round the younger clone to warm him up.

Veetch grinned in the dark through chattering teeth. “I’ll return the favour after your patrol,” he promised as he shivered and tried to make himself comfortable.

Hexx pulled Veetch close to his chest, and on the other side Helix moved closer to try and warm their brother too. Elsewhere in the pile the same was happening to Telmer, Veetch’s partner from patrol.

“Where are Geo and Dene?” rumbled Mayday’s voice, cutting through the shuffling of bodies with his precise question.

“Haven’t seen them, Commander,” said Telmer with a stiff yawn. “They were ahead of us. Assumed they’d be back already.”

Mayday sat up, shadowy in the barely-lit room, running a hand through his hair and beard. “I don’t like this.” Then he was extracting himself from the pile, going to join the two troopers preparing for patrol. “Axis, Atlas, I’m coming with you.”

The two helmeted troopers glanced at each other, then back at the sleep-bedraggled Commander. “They’ve not radioed in for assistance,” said Axis dubiously.

“Yeah,” agreed Atlas. “They probably just went off track in the dark. They’ll be back soon enough when they realise their mistake.”

Mayday was already clipping on armour plates, and their arguments went unheeded.

“The blizzard might be interfering with coms,” said Mayday darkly. “We’ll keep radioing once we’re out there, try and raise them.”

“Yes, Commander,” chorused the two clones.

In the centre of the sleep-pile, Hexx tried to rub warmth back into Veetch’s trembling limbs.

Mayday walked the patrol with Axis and Atlas. When they got back, and Geo and Dene still hadn’t returned, he woke the next two patrols. Mayday went out again with Krake and Recon. Helix and Ferox set off in the opposite direction.

Hexx was woken for his patrol. He had been scheduled to go with Mayday anyway.

“You should sleep,” he said quietly as he kitted up. “I’ll take one of the others.”

Mayday shook his head. “I’m worried. I wouldn’t sleep even if I didn’t go out.”

“Then you should stay in and get warm.”

The helmet hid his commander’s expression. His silence was answer enough.

Hexx sighed. “Alright. Let’s get moving.”

Hexx had been with Mayday a long time. Almost since the start of the Clone Wars.

He’d been with him since they were both just troopers – brothers in arms. Watched him rise through the ranks, and followed him loyally the entire time. They had lost other brothers along the way. That was part of life for a clone trooper. But somehow, he had always managed to stick close to Mayday.

He’d been at Mayday’s side when The Order came in, and the Commander had gunned down their Jedi General in cold blood.

After that, they had been assigned to the Barton IV outpost. The new squad was made up of clone troopers like them; the last of their units, dregs of squads slain and fractured during the upheaval as the Republic was re-ordered into the new Galactic Empire.

Axis and Atlas were batchmates, together since birth as far as anyone could tell. Geo, Krake and Dene had served together before, as had Ferox and Recon. Telmer and Helix were both the last survivors of their previous squads, but they fitted in well enough.

Veetch was the youngest, barely out of Kamino before the Clone Wars had ended and he had found himself shunted here, to the far end of nowhere. He put up with the teasing good naturedly. Being everyone’s vod’ika came with its perks – the others all looked out for him.

He reminded a lot of them of brothers they had lost.

It looked like it was Veetch’s turn to find out what losing a brother was like. Mayday hadn’t said as much, but Hexx knew a lot of what Mayday didn’t say.

The storm was easing now, midnight’s snow-blindness passing as the flakes fell less thickly. It would still be a couple of hours before dawn painted the sky beyond the mountains steel-grey; for now his and Mayday’s torches flashed over the fresh snowfall, and every few minutes Mayday tried the com again.

“Geo. Dene. Come in. Report.”

“Patrol unit, status check.”

“Dene. Geo. Answer me. Come in.”

Hexx trudged a few steps ahead of Mayday, cutting a channel into the deep snow for him. He hadn’t commented when Mayday took them beyond the perimeter sensors for their patrol; just took the lead and did what was needed to support the Commander.

“Geo, Dene, report.”

“What do we do with the bodies?” Hexx asked.

Mayday’s answer was slow and rough. “What?”

“When we find them,” said Hexx quietly. “The ground is too solid for a burial. We don’t have fuel for cremation.”

They trudged on in silence. Mayday didn’t reply.

Nor did he try to com the missing patrol.

It was mid-morning before Ferox got the power back online. The sensor beacons pulsed back to life, red lights lazily circling.

The heating in the depot didn’t come back on.

Recon was the one who found Geo and Dene. Telmer and Krake helped him dig them out of the snow. Helix brought a cargo pallet to carry them to the depot.

Hexx stood at the entrance to the main building as the subdued troopers approached. Mayday was at his side, head tilted up, watching the dark forms of the ice-vultures circle against the overcast sky.

“Least we found them before the scavengers did,” Hexx said softly.

Mayday’s expression was hidden by his helmet as he turned his attention to where the troopers were reverently carrying their fallen brothers.

“I shouldn’t have ordered the patrols.”

“Orders are to protect the depot and its cargo. Perimeter sensors were down. You did what you thought was best.”

Mayday’s tired sigh sounded over their com channel. “Why do I feel like the Empire isn’t going to be as understanding as you are, Hexx?”

Hexx shrugged. “We patrolled when the sensors went down before. It was just unfortunate it happened during a blizzard this time.” He hesitated. “Don’t blame yourself.”

Mayday clasped Hexx’s shoulder briefly, then headed down the steps to join his troopers.

Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes

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 all focus on Clone Commander Mayday and the Barton IV Outpost. Stay tuned to follow Mayday's journey to the bitter end...

Gonna level with you guys, I've not been well so whilst I have every intention of contributing to this event I cannot 100% guarantee updates on the day they're due... but I'll do my best :')

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day2 #frozen #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #clone trooper hexx #clone trooper veetch #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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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 leaches out into the snow, Crosshair takes a stand.

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 of 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.

Read Part 3.0 - Epilogue (Return To The Outpost)

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 your favourite part, I've had so much fun writing this fic and I'd love to know what you thought :)

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfic #day29 #betrayal #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #crosshair #tbb crosshair #ct 9904 #lieutenant nolan #crosshair and mayday #crosshair & mayday #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.2 - Broken

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday, Lieutenant Nolan Word Count: ~3230 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Mayday might have lost his squad, but a new mission – and a new companion – gives him focus. After all, Crosshair doesn’t know how to survive out here.

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

Mayday’s fingers ghosted over Hexx’s empty helmet, lips twisting in a grimace. He bit the expression back to neutrality, forcing his face into an impassive mask. Wouldn’t do to break down now.

Reverently he placed his friend’s helmet onto the crate beside Veetch’s, turning it to face in. He took a few moments to adjust it until, satisfied with the alignment, he brushed his hand over Veetch’s helmet too and stepped back to survey his work.

Eleven helmets. Eleven blank visors, staring unseeing up at him. Eleven empty buckets, holding nothing but ghosts and bad memories, each bearing the scars of their owner’s deaths.

Some leader he was, without a squad left to command.

Crosshair had stayed quiet throughout the ritual, unobtrusive yet watchful. Mayday felt the other’s eyes on him, but the sniper wasn’t his focus.

The funereal silence was broken by the lieutenant storming in.

“What are you doing just standing around?” he demanded, pushing past Crosshair to immediately crowd into Mayday’s space. “Those raiders stole two crates of cargo in that attack,” he accused, jabbing an angry finger at the clone commander. “Send your troops to retrieve it.”

Mayday took a deep breath, closing his eyes just for a moment. When he sighed the breath out, his voice was gravel.

“Hexx, and Veetch, were killed in the ambush.” He said their names slowly, rolling them round his tongue like keeping the sound of their names in his mouth might keep their memories alive a little longer. Just as slowly, he turned from the memorial, lifting his bowed head to glare at the lieutenant.

“We don’t have the manpower, or gear, for a mission beyond the perimeter,” he said flatly. “Especially just to recover a few crates.”

The hollow pit of loss gnawed at his stomach as he remembered the last time they ventured beyond the base to retrieve stolen cargo. Back then, he’d had men to lose.

Nolan was having none of it.

“It’s not up to you to determine what is of value to the Empire,” he pouted, puffing himself up to glare at the clone commander.

Mayday grit his teeth and returned the look with his own uncompromising glower.

“Then I need all your men for this mission,” he said, calculating the likelihood of success as he spoke.

“And leave this outpost vulnerable to another attack?” trilled Nolan in disbelief. “I think not.” He turned, and now his pointing finger encompassed both the clone troopers. “This task falls to you two, and you two alone. Recover the cargo. Is that clear?”

Mayday’s eyes flicked up, and he found himself meeting the gaze of the defective clone who had, as before, remained silent through the lieutenant’s tirade.

Crosshair’s jaw worked around a toothpick, and his eyes slid away.

Mayday swallowed his bitter pride and returned his glare to the Imperial officer. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he ground out, watching as the man retreated.

Behind him the sniper turned the toothpick over in his mouth as he chewed anxiously.

Taking a deep breath, Mayday rolled his neck to ease the tension and came to join Crosshair, seating himself on a crate and leaning forwards to warm his hands and face in the meagre glow of the heater. He glanced at the still-standing sniper, offering him a hollow smile.

“A special mission, just for us clones,” he said, not bothering to mask the resentment in his voice. “So what did you do to get on his bad side?”

Crosshair shrugged his thin shoulders, not meeting Mayday’s eyes.

Mayday sighed, letting his gaze drop, before sneaking a glance up at the other clone again. At least Crosshair’s reluctance to look at him gave him chance to study the man. He had tried not to stare when the CT-99 first removed his helmet, but it was hard not to want to.

He'd expected some slight variance from the standard template, but Crosshair's narrow face and sharp jaw were a far cry from the mirror he was used to seeing when he looked at his clone brothers. His skin was paler too, and his shorn-back hair hugged his scalp with stubble that showed shades of grey despite his youth.

Mayday had politely averted his attention from the pitted scar at the other clone's temple - it was bad grace to ask about these things.

Looking closely, he noticed the characteristics they did share. Narrowed though they were in constant suspicion, Crosshair had the same shrewd brown eyes that Mayday was so familiar with, restlessly darting and framed by the tattoo around his right orbit. Mayday briefly wondered if the clone had picked his name first, or if it was the tattoo which had earned him the moniker.

And the gauntness of his face was also familiar. Enhanced by his jutting cheekbones, Mayday recognised the look of someone gone too long with too little food, the hollow hardness that came with dire situations. He would never ask what Crosshair had been through, but he'd bet his meagre credit balance that it wasn't so different to what Mayday and his own squad had suffered.

His gaze drifted back to the line of empty buckets, to the two most newly added to the end of the row.

“That man is going to be the death of me,” he muttered, reluctantly pushing back to his feet. “Come on. I’ll grab my gear and we’ll head out.”

“I’ll say this about the tunnels,” said Mayday with false levity, “at least they’re warm. Well, relatively speaking. We’re out of the wind… that’s something.”

There was a lingering silence before Crosshair asked, “Do you always talk this much?”

Mayday huffed a laugh at the acerbic comment. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said without remorse. "Why, remind you of someone?"

If anything, Crosshair's silence got colder. Mayday glanced at his recalcitrant companion before turning to face ahead once more.

"Not much of a talker, are you."

"Better than people who talk when they've got nothing to say."

Mayday’s grim smile was hidden inside his helmet. "Not gonna give an inch, are you? I was hoping you'd lighten up once we were away from the Imperials."

Crosshair swung to face him, torchlight bright in his face and the muzzle of the firepuncher just above it.

"We're all Imperials now," he said, in a voice which warred between conviction and reticence. "Or did you miss the memo?"

"Oh I got it," said Mayday darkly, tapping his temple. "I just chose to hang onto my own faculties despite it."

He moved past the sniper, one hand casually pushing the firepuncher down and away. Crosshair lingered for a moment before falling back into step behind the commander.

"They say loyalty is bred into us clones," continued Mayday softly, sounding out his thoughts slowly to his unwilling audience. "Under the Republic, I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. I was proud to do my duty."

He let the thought trail off, chasing the indistinct feeling of discomfiture that had lodged inside his chest after Order 66 and hardened into something immoveable during the long months on Barton IV.

"The Empire is different," he said at length. "I don't know. I'm still loyal. Always have been. It's just..."

"You've been questioning," supplied Crosshair unexpectedly.

Mayday pulled up short, regarding the sniper with a shrewd look.

"Perhaps you've thought about this after all."

"Perhaps," said the younger clone non-committally. Then he gestured with his rifle. "Keep walking, or we'll never catch them."

Mayday rolled his eyes and breathed a shallow, sarcastic, "Sir, yes sir."

They had been following the tunnels for an hour before their torches lighted on a pair of boots sticking out from round a slight bend.

When they reached the man, Mayday crouched down and checked for vitals. The raider’s thickly padded clothes were stained dark from the gunshot wound Crosshair had inflicted; the sniper didn’t react to that, surveying the corpse dispassionately.

“He didn’t get far.”

Mayday rocked back onto his heels, shaking his head. “Not sure what bothers me more,” he said, voice soft with introspection. “That he’s wearing armour stolen off my men, or that his cohorts just left him here.”

He remembered the lengths he and his men had gone to in recovering each of their fallen brethren’s bodies. The final chance for a farewell. Looking at the dead raider, abandoned by his comrades, filled him with a hollow kind of sorrow.

Crosshair merely scoffed.

“No point carrying dead weight.”

There was a fine line between arrogance and insecurity, and Mayday was an experienced enough commander to recognise when one was masking the other. He glanced up at Crosshair, wondered again about the scars and the gauntness of his underweight frame.

Wondered who had left the Imperial sniper behind, that he was now so callous about the fate of others.

With a grunt, he pushed to his feet.

“Remind me not to die on your watch,” he muttered, and they left the fallen raider behind.

Mayday stiffened instantly at the familiar click, stomach dropping into a pit of dread.

To his credit, Crosshair didn’t panic. He froze, going stock still as Mayday turned to face him.

“Pressure mine,” supplied the commander helpfully.

Crosshair hummed an irate acknowledgement of the obvious statement.

Mayday knelt on the ground before Crosshair, laying down his blaster and positioning his torch to light the other clone’s feet. Ignoring the chill of the snow through his gloves, he carefully brushed the powdery stuff away until he revealed the edges of the innocuous, deadly metal plate.

Unable to resist, he huffed a laugh. “What were you saying about dead weight?”

“Do you know how to disarm it?” bit Crosshair, his annoyed tone not quite masking the anxious undercurrent of tension that thrummed from him.

With a shrug, Mayday rocked back to his heels. “I’m not an explosives expert,” he said bluntly. “But since I don’t feel like carrying your body back to the outpost…” He left a deliberate pause, glancing up at Crosshair to find the other clone’s visor turned towards him, gaze riveted on his position. “Guess I’ll give a shit.”

Mayday had an unexpectedly intense longing to know what Crosshair’s expression was behind the featureless black helmet. Was he glaring at Mayday in disdain… or was he moved by his assertion that, even if he died, Mayday would show him the same care he had the rest of his brothers in recovering his body?

He hoped it was the latter. Eleven empty helmets crowded his memories. He didn’t want to add a twelfth, but if he had to, he wanted Crosshair to know that someone would care about his death.

Breaking the long stare, Mayday turned back to the pressure mine. “This one’s a little different to the ones I’ve seen before,” he said, leaning to inspect it from all sides. Crosshair’s shin trembled, with cold or with tension, but he kept his foot carefully weighted on the pad. Then, with another injection of feigned casualness, “I’m pretty sure they’re all the same. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

His cold-numbed fingers didn’t want to co-operate as he withdrew the set of small metal pegs and hammer from his belt. He took a moment to inspect them, checking that the ends were sharp enough to bite into the frozen ground, before leaning in and beginning to tap the first peg into place.

“Wish I had the proper equipment for this,” he said as he worked, talking through the thudding of his heart whilst Crosshair remained completely silent. Sweat beaded on his brow inside his helmet, despite the ambient temperature. “But the Empire’s ignored all my requests. I’ve learned to improvise, though.”

As the first peg came to rest on the mine he opened his hand, displaying the remaining tools to Crosshair. Thought of all the times this home-made kit had worked.

Tried not to think of Telmer.

“I guess all clones have had to learn to improvise since the war,” he continued softly, shuffling to the side as he positioned the second peg. He kept his gaze trained on the mine, carefully measuring the gap as the peg closed on the pressure plate.

Crosshair’s silence was beginning to unnerve him. Anxiety roiled in his stomach, wishing the other clone would say something – encouragement, scathing remarks, anything.

“Can’t say I ever thought much about the war ending,” he said, hoping it would prompt the other to speak. “Until it did.”

When that failed to elicit a response, he switched to a direct question.

“What unit were you with?”

He heard the intake of breath as Crosshair hesitated. It was hard to avoid such a straight query from a commander, but the sniper made a valiant effort.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Humour me,” said Mayday. His hands moved past Crosshair’s foot again, reaching to position the final peg. “I could use the distraction.”

There was still a long moment when the only sound was the delicate tap of the hammer on the improvised disarming peg. When Crosshair finally spoke his voice was soft, missing the acid edge of his earlier snark.

“Clone Force 99.”

Mayday nodded slowly as he worked. He recognised the name, although he had never worked with the unit.

“What happened to them?” he asked, hoping his gentle tone would invite elaboration.

“They’re… gone.”

The sniper’s choice of words was more telling than he realised. Mayday wasn’t about to pry, but it was easy to see there was something complex going on there.

He thought of his brothers, his men who had been with him through the unrelenting hardship of Barton IV. Geo and Dene, Krake, Recon and Axis, Ferox, Atlas, Telmer and Helix. Veetch. Hexx.

They weren't ‘gone’. They were dead.

Gone… gone implied something else.

He also sensed that Crosshair wasn’t going to open up any further, no matter how carefully he angled his question. Instead, he turned his thoughts outwards to what remained.

“And here we are, the survivors.” The derision in his tone drew a hum of agreement from Crosshair, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his next words. “Combat troopers, stuck babysitting cargo shipments.”

Now Crosshair shifted his frame ever so slightly, the first movement since he triggered the mine, as his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“Mission’s a mission,” he said, his voice thin with disinterest.

“Yeah.” Mayday pondered the other clone’s words, trying to remember a version of himself that had arrived on Barton IV over fourteen months ago. “I used to say the same thing.”

Crosshair employed every ounce of his training to keep deathly still as the reg commander worked to disarm the pressure mine under his foot. Endless hours cramped in one place, waiting for his target to come into position, was nothing compared to the strain that this put on his body. Every muscle ached, screaming against the cold to be allowed to shiver, to move, to warm him. He clamped down with iron willpower to supress the urge to twitch even the slightest amount. He daren’t move, or the pressure mine would send them both to an early grave.

A lacklustre thought at the back of his mind wondered if that might be better. He quickly quashed that too, with a growl of annoyance. Thoughts like that weren’t helpful.

He had survived so much. He would survive this too. He’d be damned if he failed this mission; he wanted his success to wipe the smirk off Lieutenant Nolan’s face when the clones came through.

If only the damn reg would stop talking. The susurrus of his conversation was stopping Crosshair from concentrating on remaining perfectly still.

Especially when he asked about Clone Force 99.

Crosshair had let the name escape from behind clenched teeth, unwilling but seemingly unavoidable. Now memories he didn’t want flooded his mind, after all his hard work to put aside everything that had ever tied him to the clones he had once called brothers.

Not that the mindless babble Mayday had provided the rest of the day had been any easier to bear.

Loyalty. He’d talked about it, how loyalty was bred into the clones.

Crosshair had always thought he was different. He was enhanced.

Defective, whispered the poisonous voice in his mind.

But listening to Mayday talk, all he could hear was Rampart’s gently mocking voice.

“How long were you left stranded on that Kaminoan platform before being recovered?”

“Thirty-two rotations.”

“Hmm. All that time. Left for dead and yet you still came back. Why?”

He came back because he was loyal. He was a soldier of the Empire, proud to be one of the clones chosen to support the new regime instead of being sidelined by it.

Had to be proud of that, to balance the loss.

And his loyalty was his. He’d been so sure of that. It wasn’t bred into him. It wasn’t, like the kid had said, some chip in his brain controlling his actions. After all, he’d had his chip removed after Bracca, and had still worked for the Empire.

Only now it felt like that faith was fracturing, breaking as readily as the cracks in the cavernous ice around him.

He hated the reg commander. Hated his compelling, measured voice. Hated the uncertainty he planted in his mind.

Hated how reassuring it was to hear another clone voice the same doubts he’d been afraid to turn over in the dark privacy of his thoughts.

Mayday couldn’t be right. The Empire had to be worth defending.

Otherwise he’d lost his brothers for nothing.

“There. That should do it.”

The hint of triumph in Mayday’s tone pierced Crosshair’s thoughts and instantly his body was ready to move, the words the signal he needed to relax his cramped position.

“Woah, woah, woah!” warned Mayday in alarm, backing up and holding his hands up cautiously. “Don’t pick up your foot yet. Wait until I tell you.” He turned his bucket up to face Crosshair, the cloth-wrapped helmet dusted with snow. “Then lift your foot, but real slow like. I’ll wait around the bend.”

The commander began to back away, turning his back to Crosshair.

“If I don’t hear a boom, then I’ll know it worked,” he called back, almost casually, over his shoulder.

Crosshair grit his teeth, scrunching his eyes shut behind his helmet. How he wished it had been Wrecker attending the mine.

“Glad you’re confident in your work,” he spat icily.

“Oh, I’m confident,” Mayday’s voice drifted to him. “I’m just not stupid.”

Crosshair wriggled his fingers round his rifle, testing his balance on his numb legs. A shiver of cold made its way down his leg to the foot still atop the pressure plate.

“Remember, nice and slow. On the count of three. One.”

He steadied himself.

“Two.”

Took his weight on his back leg.

“Three.”

Lifted his foot.

The pegs held the pressure plate in place. Crosshair couldn’t control how his breath whooshed out in relief and he staggered back against the tunnel wall, sagging his aching body against it.

Mayday reappeared, surveying the pressure mine before clapping a hand to Crosshair’s shoulder.

“You did good, lad.”

Crosshair snarled. “Get off me.”

Mayday’s casual laugh was infuriating.

“Don’t say thank you, then,” he said, releasing him and turning to continue down the tunnel. “Keep up. Wouldn’t want you to get left behind down here.”

Read Part 2.3 - Swept Away

Welcome to Angstpril!

We're over half way through Mayday's story now, and there's hardship yet to come for him to face alongside Crosshair. Stay tuned to follow their journey to the bitter end...

will do my level best to get the next chapter finished on time but it's been A Few Days so we'll see

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day20 #broken #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #lieutenant nolan #crosshair #tbb crosshair #ct 9904 #crosshair and mayday #crosshair & mayday #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 8 months ago

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Welcome To The Outpost: Part 1.4 - No Way Out

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Kick Them While They Are Down

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch, Additional Clone Troopers Word Count: ~2075 Warnings: Minor Character Deaths, Suicide Mention Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: A request for extraction is ignored, with Imperial orders reiterating that Mayday and his remaining squad members are to keep the base secure and protect the cargo at all costs.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle

“I’ve never seen a shiny lose their spark so quickly.”

Mayday was standing at the top of the metal stairs, watching Veetch sweep snow from the hard-standing in front of the depot buildings. Hexx passed him a cup of caf as he joined him, both of them focusing on the young clone who moved stiffly, shoulders hunched against the cold and against his own inner turmoil.

“Kid’s got nothing to distract him,” volunteered Hexx. “Usually they go through a tough battle, but then there’s another mission to distract them, or an influx of new shinies who need their support.” He glanced at Mayday with a wry smile. “Worked for me.”

The comment drew a faint huff of amusement from the commander, an increasingly rare sound. “I remember,” he agreed. “I didn’t realise you’d only been deployed six weeks longer than me.”

“Helped me to have a new shiny to adopt,” said Hexx softly. “Didn’t think back then that this is where we’d end up.”

Mayday knocked his vambrace affectionately against his friend’s. “Glad I’ve still got you to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“Is that what I do?”

“It’s the reason you’re my second-in-command.”

They lapsed into silence, tense with the unspoken weight of their situation. Hexx knew as well as Mayday how dire things were becoming.

The weeks following the ice wyrm encounter had been tough on all the remaining troopers. When Atlas had snapped out of his catatonia to corner Veetch and beat him bloody for his perceived role in Axis’ death, it had taken Hexx and Helix both to pull him off the young clone.

Brothers coming to blows cast a further pall over the diminished squad, the camaraderie which had sustained them through the long months of the posting all but evaporated. Half a squad meant double the work for each of them, and the clones were constantly running on the edge of exhaustion.

Mayday’s request for additional troops to be sent was declined. The Empire’s assessment was also that, if three of their number had died, they could stretch their remaining rations further and defer sending the next supply ship to save on the fuel cost of the run.

The doors to the storage unit which had been blown open couldn’t be repaired. Ferox was in a foul mood almost daily, no matter who was assigned to help him with his duties.

The next time the perimeter sensors failed, Helix suggested they stop sending daily reports to the Empire. The Empire might bother to send a team to investigate the outpost; it would be the quickest way to secure reinforcements and new supplies, he said.

Telmer was overheard saying they’d have more luck abandoning their post and joining the raiders.

Mayday cracked down on such chatter quickly, quelling the mutterings of rebellion with his usual brand of calm, confident leadership. He let them see his frustration though; didn’t hide his disdain at the repeated rebuttals the Empire gave him to his daily appeals for support.

It was only when he and Hexx patrolled alone, far from the others, that he confided his sympathy for his trooper’s views.

Six months stretched into eight, then ten. The isolation ate at the squad’s morale so that Mayday’s whole focus became the wellbeing of his men.

The only saving grace was the weather. A new storm front meant Barton IV’s climate went from being merely inhospitable to actively endangering life. It was all they could do to keep the base running; but at least the same cold that degraded their equipment and caused them such discomfort stayed the frequency of attacks from the raiders.

Ferox’s luck ran out when he tried – again – to repair the heating systems in the base. The corroded component sparked, and electricity surged in a lightning-bright snap to course through his frame and blast him across the room.

For three days he hovered on the threshold of death, skin blistered and cracked, burned inside his body in a way none of them knew how to treat. His groans and sobs were a constant soundtrack of pain permeating the main building, grating on his brothers’ resolve.

In the end Atlas took it on himself to put Ferox out of his misery. Then he turned his blaster on himself too.

Two more helmets joined the sombre memorial in the crowded room. The empty buckets now outnumbered the living members of the squad.

“Commander.”

“I hear you, Veetch. What is it?”

“There’s… something in the snow. I… I think you should come look.”

By the time Mayday and Helix had found Veetch he was shivering from standing still so long. His gaze was riveted on a dark metal pad on the ground, the edges just uncovered by the way the wind gusted away the powdery snow.

“Pressure mine,” breathed Mayday, crouching down to inspect the device. “Where did it come from?”

Helix surveyed the horizon through a set of binoculars. “I can’t see anything out there.”

Veetch had relaxed marginally now that his commander was there. “What do we do about it?”

“Let’s head back to base,” said Mayday. “Go through the kit boxes again and see if we’ve got something to deal with it.”

“Protocol would be for every member of the squad to carry the equipment to disarm these at all times,” said Helix dubiously. “Reckon they’ll have sent us enough for that?”

Mayday’s reply was grim. “We can hope.”

There was no proper equipment to deal with the mines. Mayday sent a request for additional supplies, despite his misgivings about the likelihood of such things materialising.

Telmer bodged together a set of tools for each of them to use and showed them the theory of dealing with the pressure triggers using scrap metal to practice on.

The appearance of the mines marked a resurgence of activity from the raiders. With the storms abating, their probing attacks tested the degraded defences of the outpost.

Every fight was a fight to protect a brother. Yes, the clones were still aware of their duty to guard the outpost and its Imperial cargo. But it was a lesser concern than banding together to defend each other, five of them against everything Barton IV could throw at them.

Every skirmish with the raiders was an outlet for their frustrations about the unfeeling disregard of the Empire.

The pressure mines eventually did their job. Without proper detection equipment, noticing them, and therefore disarming them, was a matter of chance.

They claimed Telmer as their victim, a quick and bloody death that painted the snowscape red.

The rest of the clones added the raider’s blood to the scene in vengeance for their fallen brother.

Mayday gently turned Helix’s foot in his hands, inspecting the necrotic flesh without flinching.

Helix offered a strained grin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his skin pallid and greying.

“Sorry, commander. Don’t mean to leave you like this.”

Ghosting his fingers over the blackened decay that was eating at Helix’s leg, Mayday shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, voice little more than a murmured growl. “I’m just glad this transport is arriving today. We can get you the treatment you need elsewhere.”

“Are they bringing reinforcements too?”

Mayday pulled out his datapad and checked it. “Additional labour to assist with storage and management of Imperial cargo,” he read off. “So yeah, sounds like it.”

“Better late than never, right?” said Helix with a forced laugh.

Mayday patted his trooper’s knee and carefully re-covered the frostbitten flesh.

“I’m going to go meet this ship. Com me if you need anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Helix managed an exhausted salute before flopping back in his bunk, shivers of sickness wracking his body.

Mayday stalked from the base, pulling his helmet on as he stepped into the frigid world outside. Veetch and Hexx were waiting impatiently on the hard standing, gazes trained on the distant dot against the skyline that was rapidly growing bigger with approach.

“Better late than never indeed,” Mayday echoed gruffly. Then, “Veetch, get a pallet, be ready to unload any supplies they’ve seen fit to furnish us with. Hexx,” and the clone turned to look at him, “You and me will carry Helix to the transport. Make him as comfortable as we can.”

“Yes, sir,” came their dual responses, and the three waited together for the ship to land.

Snowflakes swirled in dizzying eddies as the ship touched down on the outpost’s forecourt, dancing streaks of white against dark grey. Almost before the ship was still Mayday was striding towards it.

The pilot descended from the cockpit to meet him. Mayday fought the urge to crane past him and watch for other troops departing the transport.

“Welcome to the Outpost, sir,” he said with a smart salute. “Glad you’re here.”

The pilot turned his visored helmet to regard Hexx and Veetch over Mayday’s shoulder.

“Is this all of you? Gonna take a while to stack the cargo with just three.”

Mayday’s thoughts stuttered. “The cargo?”

“Yes,” drawled the pilot, as though Mayday was slow of mind. “The cargo. To be stored in the depot.”

Shaking his head cautiously, Mayday said, “I was expecting troop reinforcements.”

It came out more plaintive than he intended. The pilot was unmoved.

“If you’re due reinforcements, they’re coming on another ship. I have a delivery of fifty crates, plus four droid units to help manage them, but they’ll need to be hooked up to your power supply to charge before they’ll be any use.”

“Droids,” echoed Mayday in disbelief. Some small part of his mind registered that he wasn’t sounding particularly authoritative, but the sudden reversal of his expectations had thrown him. He had been waiting for more clone troopers. He needed them.

Taking Mayday’s echolalia as reason to ignore him, the pilot hailed Hexx and Veetch. “Hey. You two. I’ll drop the cargo ramp and you can start unloading these crates.”

Mayday grabbed the man’s arm as he went to climb back to the cockpit. “I have a man who is injured, sick. He needs evac. You’re taking him, right?”

The pilot snorted. “Does this look like a medical transport to you? Don’t be stupid. I’m not equipped to carry passengers, let alone provide treatment.” He brushed Mayday’s hand off roughly. “Now do your job, trooper, and unload the cargo.”

Hexx and Veetch had drawn alongside them now, shifting uneasily as they sensed the tension between the two men. Mayday stared at the pilot a moment longer, visor to visor, willing him to change his mind. To say it was all a joke. Of course they were taking Helix.

The other merely stared him down in silence. Mayday broke first, turning away, gesturing to his troopers.

“C’mon, boys,” he muttered, voice hollow with defeat. “We’ve got some crates to stack.”

Clasping one of Helix’s hands in both his own, Mayday bowed his head and pressed his brother’s chilled fingers to his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Helix.”

Helix’s breathing was laboured. His words were slurred, but he still managed a grimace of a smile for Mayday.

“Won’t… hold it ‘gainst you, c’mmander. Know you did… ev’rythin’ you could.”

Mayday reached out a trembling hand and smoothed it across Helix’s clammy brow, stroking sweat-laden hair back from his face.

“Try and hold on a bit longer for me, Helix. I sent an urgent com for aid.”

“Y’did that… before… c’mmander.”

Helix’s gaze roved, glassy, over Mayday’s face, seeing but unfocused.

“Empire aren’t… coming f’r us,” he panted out, fingers spasming weakly in Mayday’s grip. “No way off… this rock. No way… ‘cept the way th’ others went.”

Mayday forced a false smile to his lips, face aching with the rictus grimace of it.

“Don’t talk like that, vod. You’re going to be fine.”

The blankets rose and fell shallowly with Helix’s rapid breathing. “Maybe… Atlas had it right.”

“Helix-”

“Would y’do that f’me… c’mmander?”

Mayday gazed in despair at the glint of lucidity in his trooper’s eyes.

“What Altas did… f’r Ferox….”

“Go to sleep, Helix,” said Mayday, voice trembling. His eyes prickled unexpectedly and he rubbed at them, then dragged a hand through his own untamed hair.

“Sure.” Helix wheezed a chuckle. “Sleep… sounds good.”

“Yeah.” Mayday squeezed his hand hard. “When you wake up, we’ll have a transport ready to evacuate you.”

“’Vacuate…” Helix’s head lolled on the pillow, eyelids drifting closed above sunken cheeks. “Sounds… good. Y’re… th’ best…… c’mmander…”

Read Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place

How's it going, reader? Have you been here for all of Angstpril so far, or just stumbled on this story today?

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...

I think my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt 'Kick Them While They Are Down' applies to pretty much the whole cast of characters in today's chapter...

Don't forget to check out @the-little-moment's stories:- Day 1 - Homesick Day 4 - Longing Day 7 - Bad Dreams Day 10 - Phantom Pain

And @kybercrystals94's stories:- Day 3 - Broken Hearted Day 6 - This Isn't Going To Work Day 9 - Trust Issues

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day11 #no way out #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #clone trooper hexx #clone trooper veetch #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 8 months ago

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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.

Read Part 1.4 - No Way Out

Welcome to Angstpril!

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

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day8 #lost battle #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #clone trooper hexx #clone trooper veetch #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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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.

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!

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day23 #swept away #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #crosshair #tbb crosshair #ct 9904 #crosshair and mayday #crosshair & mayday #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 7 months ago

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Welcome To The Outpost: Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch Word Count: ~1065 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Mayday, Hexx and Veetch are the last survivors of the squad of 12 initially assigned to the Barton IV outpost. Supplies are dwindling and the relief ship is overdue.

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

The base was quiet, the only light cast by blinking computer lights and the yellowish glow of the portable heater. Mayday, Hexx and Veetch sat close to the heater, chairs pulled up to a crate which served as a card table, a lacklustre game of sabacc being played.

Drawing a card, Hexx said, “Hey Commander, where are we going to take Veetch on his first leave?”

Mayday managed a crooked smile. “That’s right. We’re all well overdue a break.” He glanced at Veetch, the young clone’s eyes shining widely in his gaunt face. “Where do you think, lad? Coruscant? The Outer Rim?”

“Somewhere warm and sunny, with strong drinks and beautiful women,” suggested Hexx with a wolfish grin.

Mayday chuckled drily. “I wouldn’t say no to a tropical break.”

Gaze roving between his two companions, Veetch laid down his playing cards, the game momentarily forgotten. “You’re kidding,” he accused, half a smile tugging at his face as he looked for the jape. “You… we… we’ve been stuck together in this base for over a year. You’d still want to spend… leave time with me?”

“Kriff, Veetch,” said Hexx, leaning over and clapping him on the shoulder, “we wouldn’t go anywhere without you.” He grinned. “Besides, you’ve not seen anything of life other than Kamino and this frost-encrusted hell-hole. Mayday and I wouldn’t let you get into trouble out there.”

“Brothers stick together,” Mayday agreed. “Hexx and I won’t leave you behind.”

The faintest smile glimmered on Veetch’s face. Breath clouding the air, he recovered his cards and played his turn. “So… somewhere with a beach, for Hexx to rest his old bones,” he teased, although his voice was strained.

“Watch it,” Hexx growled affectionately, “or I might change my mind.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Veetch softly, gaze falling to the sad pile of cards before them. “We’re never getting off this planet.”

Mayday sat up straighter. “Hey. None of that. Relief ship is due any day.”

“Relief ship was due two weeks ago,” Hexx reminded him.

“Which is why we’re expecting it any day.”

“They’ve said that before,” said Veetch, a miserable whisper.

“And I have it on good authority that they are finally retrieving this damn cargo we’ve been guarding all this time,” growled Mayday. “Which means the end of this posting.”

With an irritated noise, he slapped his sabacc card down harder than necessary.

“It’s got to show up.” He tried not to think of their dwindling rations. “It has to.”

Conversation tapered into morose silence, the three clones playing cards without deriving any real joy from the game.

Eventually Hexx spoke again.

“Where do you think we’re getting posted next?”

“I’d be happy with a Core Worlds posting,” said Mayday gruffly. “Get a handle on what this Empire is all about.”

“Not about loyalty to us clones, that’s for sure,” said Hexx with a bitter laugh.

Veetch was looking sombre again. Mayday reached out, tapping his vambrace briefly against his young squad member’s.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he said. “I’m requesting you for my squad, wherever we end up.” He summoned another rough smile. “It’s like Hexx said… we’re not going anywhere without you.”

Alone except for the quietly whirring droids endlessly stacking and re-stacking the cargo, Mayday let his head drop to his hands. He was sat in front of the main console, knowing he needed to open the long-range com channel, dreading doing so.

He raked his fingers shakily through his hair, steeling his nerves. He had to do this. His men needed him to.

His men. All two of them.

A glance to the shadowed corner near the heater showed him Hexx and Veetch, curled so tightly into each other in sleep they were almost one. Veetch’s once-youthful face was pinched, lined with worry, and Hexx was similarly aged, face slack with exhaustion. Even in sleep his body trembled with cold.

Mayday stood, venturing to his Commander’s berth and pulling the blankets from it. He draped them across his brothers, tucking the extra layers tightly in around their bodies. His own faced creased in a deep frown.

Snapping to attention, he turned to the com and activated it.

“Commander Mayday, contacting from the Barton IV Outpost.”

“Go ahead, Commander.”

“The relief ship didn’t arrive today.”

A brief silence. Then, “The ship has not yet departed.”

Mayday held a growl in his throat, swallowing it and forcing his voice calm.

“Our supplies are almost out.”

“Orders remain unchanged. You are to guard the cargo until retrieval.”

“How are my boys supposed to do that when they’re half-starved? The only reason we have food left is because-”

He choked on the words. Helix’s hand in his, heavy and cold. Holding him long after his life had slipped away.

“Because one of my squad died,” he grit out. His mouth was thick, bitter with sorrow, anger leaching into his tone. “We’re sharing his rations between three of us, and they won’t last.”

“I suggest you find a way to make them go further,” came the short response. “Imperial troops will arrive in due course, but there are other priorities.”

“Not to me,” growled Mayday. “My men-”

“-Will have to endure,” he was interrupted.

Mayday’s teeth clicked together hard as he clenched his jaw. “When will the ship be here?” he said forcefully.

“You will be notified when the ship departs so you can ready the cargo for retrieval.”

“WHEN?”

“Check your tone, Commander. I am terminating this transmission.”

The com went dead.

Mayday breathed out a stunned exhale, staring helplessly at the dark console. His thoughts scattered, abstractly dancing between decisions he couldn’t focus on.

Imperial orders remained the same. They were dependant on the Empire – completely dependant on them coming to retrieve what was left of his squad.

There was nothing he could do to make it happen sooner. Nothing to do but watch their supplies dwindle further; watch the hope fade from his brothers’ eyes.

He blinked when he realised his cheeks were wet, dragged a forearm roughly across his face. The dirty cloth wraps on his arms rubbed grit into his eyes, which only made them water further.

Bitter anger coiled in his stomach as he sat, alone, and considered their options. Their lack of options.

Rely on the Empire.

Or die waiting for them.

It wasn’t so much a choice, as a matter of which would come first.

Read Part 2.1 - Last Chance

Hello lovely readers, we are half way through Angstpril - and this is the end of Part 1!

Have you enjoyed reading about Mayday and his squad? Drop me a comment to let me know what your favourite thing has been so far!

In Part 2 we'll meet a certain snarky sniper...

Don't forget to check out @the-little-moment's stories:- Day 1 - Homesick Day 4 - Longing Day 7 - Bad Dreams Day 10 - Phantom Pain Day 13 - Learning The Truth

And @kybercrystals94's stories:- Day 3 - Broken Hearted Day 6 - This Isn't Going To Work Day 9 - Trust Issues Day 12 - A Little Too Late

#angstpril2024 #thebadbatch #fanfiction #day14 #alt prompt #rock and a hard place #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #clone commander mayday #commander mayday #barton iv #the outpost #clone trooper hexx #clone trooper veetch #littlekyberthoughts

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 8 months ago

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

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Self Surgery

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

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

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hexx, how’s it going out there?”

“Good to hear your voice, Commander.”

“Report.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mayday nodded. “Go help them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gruff chorus of affirmatives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Raiders are getting bolder.”

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

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

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

Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle

Welcome to Angstpril!

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

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

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

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

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