(some of these are posted under my other tumblr, @freshneverfrozen, or through AO3, but it’s me, I swear)
I accept Star Wars (only) requests under the following rules:
Nothing super long (short on time and brain power these days)
Give me a specific prompt *cracks knuckles* I specialize in angst, but I can do fluff if you threaten me.
NSFW is fine, provided it’s not illegal or super weird (do I really need to clarify no underage, animals, furries, cheating, anything that makes me go wtf?). If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll decline or tweak it appropriately.
Tell me what reader pronouns you prefer; (I’m a woman, writing mostly for women, but I will do my very best for you)
Characters: Bad Batch characters, most Clone Wars boys, the Mandalorian, the movies are also fair game (except Anakin, sorry)
If I can’t write it, but I know of a good fic, I’ll point you in its direction!
Original Fiction/Interactive Fiction/Hosted Games
The Porthecrawl Witness with Demo: Here
Star Wars
Dopheld Mitaka x Reader - The Acquitionist: Part One, the Lieutenant
Tech x Reader x Crosshair - Point of Contact, Pt 1 , Pt 2
Part two, 8.1K words...Snob!Reader still wants to throw hands with Hunter. Crosshair’s alright though. Tech’s cute for some reason.
Part One
...............
Clone Force 99...you aren’t certain what you had expected. You know what their files told you, what Senator Amidala assured you the Republic’s military minds told her, and what other, more discreet, entities had whispered to you, but in person, they are something else entirely. Brothers, soldiers, but more than that, they seem like men.
Not the same sort of tools others in the Banking Clan whisper about when they differentiate between casualties and fodder. The big one looked soft in his own way, the leader far less trusting and far more hard-edged. The other two...the brains of their operation and the killer. Attractive despite their supposed defects.
But you have seen handsome men before, beautiful ones even, and it always fades away in favor of something else. Efficiency and effectiveness. Irreplaceable characteristics that never lose value, only reach an expiration date. With a thoughtful hum at your own weaknesses as you tug on a long disused pair of boots, you find yourself forced to acknowledge that you’ve always preferred to enjoy fine things while they last.
That may not be for much longer.
Changed from your silks and satins into the streamlined black weathertech of Trade Operations, you pause long enough to examine yourself in the mirror of your quarters. The old you, the persona that had been so carefully built, then retired, looks back, her face grave, her eyes sharper than they had been the last time you had donned this uniform. A quick, reflexive inhale drives your gaze from the woman in the mirror and you make a swift exit into the hall.
Downstairs, you make your way to the conference room. Two minutes until the holo with the senator. Two minutes to see what these men are made of, if they truly are to be as efficient as your earlier impressions had believed.
As the door to the room whistles open, you allow the four sets of eyes that turn to regard you their own chance to draw conclusions. One of those is a leer, and unashamed about it, while the other three are more wary. The shielded eyes of the bespectacled soldier seem to hover somewhere in between. So, he is as smart as he looks, then. How very endearing. It warms the apples of your cheeks that so often feel perpetually chilled. In your years, you’ve come to appreciate those sporting both functionality and appeal.
The leader -- a sergeant according to his file -- is the first to speak. He is stone-faced, his expression tellingly careful; yet, the set of his shoulders, like a kath hound with its hackles raised, warn all too well that he is as disgruntled to see your attire as you had anticipated.
“Armor?”
He thought you would turn them loose on Banking Clan territory? He’s too used to being trusted. His shoulders inch higher as your lips peel back from your teeth.
“Indeed it is, Sergeant.”
The room itself is semi-circular, all shades of clashing gold and blue durasteel, and you suspect the Clone Sergeant likes it that way; his back is not exposed to any doors, only a wall of impact-resistant glass he couldn’t beat his way out of if he needed to. Does he have that part figured out yet, you wonder?
The holo terminal in the center of the room flashes as you approach and reach out a hand to press a single button. It flickers, live and waiting for the call. Looking about yourself at four sets of nearly identical brown eyes, all of them alert now, you ask, “Have any of you addressed a senator before?”
“Diplomacy isn’t our specialty.” The serpentine voice nearly surprises you. It isn’t the speaker you’ve expected. Your gaze slides to the narrow, high-planed face of CT-9904. Ah, he does speak. His name, if he has one, and you’re certain he does amongst this band of brothers, was not listed in his file. Visually, he is the least identifiable as a clone, though, curiously, still marked by the warlike trappings of the facial modifications so common amongst the lab-born. Scarification? Or a tattoo? You find, hidden as he is in the furthest shadows of the room, you cannot tell what exactly it is that marks the severe planes of his face.
“It isn’t mine either,” you reply. He grins at something in your voice that should not have been there to start, and you force your features into neutrality once more. Nerves are beginning to chew their way up your insides, made worse by these strangers. It’s been so long since you had last felt the unwelcome, spine-deep tingle of apprehension. Of uncertainty.
Maybe you have become complacent, after all.
The big one looks excited, child-eyed, but not quite innocent. And the other, the smart one...strangely, you find yourself unwilling to look his way at all, a whisper in your mind warning you that your indulgence earlier should not be repeated. But not looking is at times as telling as giving in, so you spare him a glance, lashes fluttering against the ticking seconds. He blinks owlishly behind his headwear, as startled as he had been the first time.
A very bad habit.
Another flicker in the ambient blue above the terminal warns of an incoming call and you press the button just as the first alert chimes. The well-dressed figure of Padme Amidala coruscates in the center of the terminal. Indulgently beautiful, the woman’s appearance never fails to make you wistful for your own fine trimmings that so often go to waste in your apartments upstairs.
You bow your head. “Senator, on behalf of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, I thank you for your time, and...” You pause with a performatively feeble smile. “For my own sanity’s sake, I really must thank you for pulling the strings necessary to gather the Republic’s finest.”
You extend a hand, gesturing at figures around the terminal. Even the sniper slithers into view at a glance from the sergeant. Your words have been complimentary, but not without their own veil. These aren’t the Republic’s finest, they are the Republic’s most effective, and that, you know, is as dangerous for you as it is valuable.
These are not the blunt instruments you had anticipated. They are sniffer dogs, amongst other things, prone to catch a scent where they should not.
Again, that voice of warning hums its tune amid your thoughts.
The senator smiles warmly in a flicker of static. “The commanders assure me Clone Force 99 is exceedingly capable. The best, if you will. I fear the best will be needed to recover what has been lost.”
What has been lost under your own watch. Tit for tat. Her threat, however veiled, does not miss you. It lands as it should, and you hide it as well as you should. But as all Senate threats do, it rings empty. If -- when -- you suffer the consequences of this failure, it will not be from the posturing of pretty bureaucrats.
You place a hand over your heart. It still beats most days, still mostly woman amidst the ice. “We all have much to lose if that data is not recovered, Senator, myself chief among those.”
“Senator Amidala, if I may…” The sergeant steps forward, his voice assured, even as he squeezes tighter against the helmet clutched beneath his arm. “What sort of data are we recovering? Upper brass didn’t have much to say.”
Amidala sweeps her hands from her sides to clasp them before her middle. You know the movement, it’s one meant to buy milliseconds while deliberating an answer. Then, she dips her head in acknowledgement. “The dangerous sort, Sergeant. The Banking Clan was in the care of...potentially inflammatory secrets that, if revealed, would undermine much of the Senate’s standing. These aren’t military secrets, you understand, but personal ones. Powerful ones.”
Blackmail.
The sergeant knows it, too. You spy a twitch at one cheek.
Those secrets that would ruin a third of the Senate and you yourself were privy to most of them, had collected most of them. Before these soldiers were called in - forcibly, you might add, an unwelcome measure taken by over-reactive politicians - it had been proposed by the Banking Clan’s council that the secrets should be leaked before it hit the blackmarket, rendering them valueless; however, that plan, as cooler heads had been quick to point out, would also ensure that the IGBC was never trusted again. You yourself had been quick to point out that while you knew of those involved, knew they’re slip-ups, the lone proof and important specifics had been cultivated into a single data stick.
Never cut your nose off to spite your face.
The eyes in the room turn toward you once more and you raise your chin. The armor over your back is a distant, but familiar comforting weight you rarely feel these days.
You say, “I hope it’s a small comfort to know those secrets are biometrically secured. Those mercenaries may have stolen them, but given that I still have all ten fingers, it will take time to access them. And time is all we need.”
“There are those among us who fear it is the Separatists at work.” Amidala turns her attention to the troopers before her. “I know you aren’t interested in the political ramifications. You’re good men, good soldiers. But I must remind you that if our suspicions are true, if this truly is a Separatist plot, the foundations of the Galactic Senate will be weakened. Now, of all times, we cannot risk division. The four of you know that better than either I, or the representative here, could ever explain.”
The sergeant shares a look with the others and save for the sniper, they nod their heads. It is a nauseating show of camaraderie, and you grate your teeth against the sheer swell of Republic naivete in the room.
Stars, spare me the pox of idealism.
The flex in your jaw does not go unnoticed by the trooper in the shadows. You can feel his eyes on you, prickling at all your sharp, little corners. His thin lips slide into a grin and, seeing the look, a new, more palatable bloom of fellowship replaces the other that had risen in your chest.
Team spirit. Interesting.
You find it in yourself to rein in any further unruly divulgences before they can truly set into your expression.
Clearing your throat delicately, you speak. “If that’s all, Senator, we will leave immediately for the site where the transport was attacked. Give me eight standard hours and I’ll have more information for you.”
“Of course. I look forward to the call and some good news, I hope. Be safe, all of you.”
A round of echoes goes up as the holo winks out.
The large trooper sighs, a shockingly daydreamy sound from so colossal a man. “Can’t let her down, can we, fellas?”
Yet, rather than answer, the sergeant’s eyes narrow on you. “Blackmail? We’re being sent to recover blackmail?”
You hold out your hands in display of innocence so mocking, it earns you a twitch around one of the trooper’s eyes. “Trade secrets. We deal in many currencies, Sergeant.”
“Did you sell them or were they really stolen?”
“I’ve the bodies of thirteen men downstairs if you would like to ask them.” There’s a coolness in your voice that most people balk at when confronted by it, but the trooper only glares. You continue, “Sergeant...CT - ”
“Hunter.”
“Hunter,” you repeat, “This incident is a stain on my reputation. My career, my life is forfeit if those secrets are not recovered. This may be a mission for you, but it is imperative for me. You do not need to trust me, but you must at least acknowledge my motivations. Furthermore, allow me this. You have your brothers here. You must know the lengths you would go to to protect them?”
There is a pause and then he nods. “I do.”
“A friend - my dearest friend - was on that transport. He is missing. His...body was not among the wreckage, nor those recovered.”
“Can he bypass the biometrics you mentioned?”
You shake your head. “No. His safe return is yet another personal interest, not a professional one. Now, with that said, we are wasting time that I do not have.”
Hunter’s cheek shadows beyond the dark swathe of his tattoo; if he bites much harder, he’ll chew through it. To your surprise, it is the other trooper who speaks. He shuffles forward, one hand raised to make a minute adjustment to his goggles.
“Earlier, you said something about a tram?”
Bless him. Your temper only very rarely surpasses your mouth, but these troopers are proving more men than soldiers. It is an even greater surprise when you find yourself smiling, the expression so quick and genuine that it feels strange over your lips.
“I did…” You await his name.
“Tech.”
“Tech.” He flushes so quickly, so helplessly, that your smile grows, then offers a wordless nod of confirmation. You spare him, looking away to the other two. “You are?”
“Wrecker.”
Of course you are. Still, you incline your head at the trooper. He raises a thumb to the remaining man. “Bet you could guess his if you tried.”
You turn to the man, the one called CT-9904 in his file. “Shall I try?”
There’s twitch at one corner of his mouth, but unlike the others, his gaze is steady. Intent.
“Crosshair.”
“A mouthful,” you muse, heat creeping up your neck as his eyes glint. “May I call you Cross?”
Broad, thin shoulders rise and fall. “Why not?”
“A motley crew if I’ve ever seen one. Promising. Now, I hope you’ve all worn your thermals under that armor. It’s going to be cold. Shall we?”
They follow you from the conference room, through the corridors and elevators of the tower, until at last, the five of you emerge onto the tram platform. A track runs outward, snaking around the nearest mountain before disappearing into the mists.
“These trams run between towers. Each tower maintains its own vault, all of them connected to the Clan’s main center of operations. Cargo lands there for processing, before being transported to the appropriate vault. The one around you specializes in data storage.”
“Entirely? No credits?” asks Tech.
“We tailor our security measures appropriately, but yes, we do store credits as well,” you reply. “Each tram is guarded by squads of thirteen, not counting the security division’s IG droids. This particular tram was being overseen by my personal attendant.”
“Attendant?” Hunter’s brow wrinkles beneath the stained line of his banana. “You wouldn’t send just any attendant. You’re talking about a bodyguard. Armed. Skilled.”
Well...You’re almost impressed. “Very skilled and, before you ask, implicitly trustworthy.”
The distinctive drawl of the sniper, Crosshair, has you raising an eyebrow. “Unusual for a Banking Clan member to call anyone trustworthy.”
His helmet has been settled back into place, his eyes hidden, but his tone lies somewhere between casual and accusatory, as though, without saying as much, he believes that you should have had the experience to know better. A prickle of irritation boiling in your stomach proves that he's not wrong. But of all the beings in the galaxy you believed could have handled the transport, your own bodyguard was chief among them. Another, quieter voice whispers at you that had you gone yourself, you would either be missing or, more likely, dead.
It may have been a kinder fate than what looms before you now.
Bothering with a glare will only tell him that he's right, so you turn away toward the sound of approaching footsteps. A guard makes his way toward you from the platform's second set of doors. The troopers watch warily as the guard deposits a sleek black case into your outstretched hands. Too long has it and its contents been locked away; you remember the day you set the lock and the strange flare of tenderness and regret you’d felt in your chest when you had done it. Once, you knew these contents well, as intimately as the palm of your own hand. But now, the weight feels heavier than you remember, less easily recognizable than that of your armor.
"As requested, ma'am," says the guard before he turns sharply away and goes back the way he came.
Case in hand, you move to the terminal near the waiting tram compartment. Keying in the passcode, the doors hiss open, and you gesture the troopers inside. Even between the four men and yourself, the tram is spacious, built to house several tons of cargo at any given time. Instead of the commonplace plasteel, the body of the compartment is composed of heat and blast resistant quadranium that runs in sleek, seamless lines from one rounded corner to the other. Its single design flaw is the same weakness that had been exploited during the heist two days ago -- it is windowless and very nearly soundproof. Anyone could approach and could be well on their way to breaching the hull before their presence was noticed, provided the sensors were disabled and they had the necessary equipment. And it would have needed to be a lot of equipment.
Whoever had planned the attack had been alarmingly well-prepared and, worse yet, well-informed.
Once the door seals behind you, its heavy locks sliding into place, you deposit your case near one wall. A quick tap at the display near the door sends the five of you on your way. The men sway as the momentum of the tram gains speed, but after a few seconds, all is steady and quiet.
You return to the case, the tickle of uneasy eyes on you all the while as you kneel and press your fingers at the lock until the mechanism opens with a hiss of released pressure. Inside rests the folded, disassembled body of a mid-range blaster rifle and a sheathed vibroknife that had once been kept without exception at the small of your back.
"Mmm, vintage," coos a voice from over your shoulder. You shift on your knee to peer up at Crosshair's masked face. He had approached without a sound, despite his armor and size. It's an admirable skill, and one that sets your teeth on edge. "A Z-72 Wraith Infiltrator."
"Z-73, actually. Give me credit where it's due."
"It's been modified?"
"Sacrificed range for punch. Barrel compresses in a pinch, then it really hurts."
He hums, the sound faintly scattered over his voice modulator. "Nasty girl."
"She is, isn't she?" With a sigh, you run a hand over the rifle, old memories humming beneath your fingertips.
The helmet tilts ever slightly. "I was talking about you."
"If the two of you are done, we could all do with some specifics," grouses the sergeant from his place near the door. At a glance, you see that the rest of them have replaced their helmets, leaving them faceless, stoic dark figures at your back. As you draw the first piece of the rifle from the case, muscle memory does the rest, and you spare the gun little more than a glance while you return it to its former glory.
"It's twenty-four klicks between Tower Besh, where we just left, and the primary dock. The attack took place precisely at the halfway point."
"Maximize response time," murmurs Tech, his arms folded, "An appropriate strategy. Surely there were warning sensors?"
"Yes," you confirm with a nod, "And not just on the freight cars. The tracks have the same sensors, in the event someone tries to blow them. Those sensors should have triggered at the slightest detection of an organic or electronic signature as soon as one was within range. They didn't. It's proprietary tech. Even I don't know how the assailants managed to get anywhere near this tram without being blasted out of the sky with an electro pulse."
"They hit the car or the tracks?" asks Wrecker.
"The tracks. Either they found a gap precisely where they needed one, or they made one. We don’t know. Tracks were blown out eleven and a half clicks out from the docks. Tram went off the rails. Three of our men were killed on impact with the valley below, the others when the thieves gained entry into the car. Whole thing was over in six minutes. What's more, we never knew there was a problem until the tram didn't arrive on time."
"No distress signals? A jammer?" Tech's visor is clearer than those of his others, and you see his eyes narrow in thought.
"A heavy duty one, blocking multiple frequencies. My friend...he would have contacted me if he ever had the chance, even if the tram’s security measures failed to transmit. He should have been able to work around it, so something happened hard and fast enough that it stopped even him."
Hunter has started to move, pacing a short circuit from one wall of the car to the other. His arms are folded, one hand wedged under the chin plate of his helmet. "A plan like that, packing that kind of power, sounds like a military job."
"You sound like the senator, seeing Separatists in the shadows." The last piece of the rifle screws snuggly into place and you slide its sling over one shoulder as you stand. The vibroblade is hidden in its place against the curve of your back, as snug as though it had never left. Hunter's pacing stills and through the shaded eye slots of his helmet, you can feel the burn of the glare he levels at you. "Between professionals, Sergeant, the Banking Clan doesn't discriminate against credits. Not yours, not those from the Separatist Alliance. Do you have any idea of the rates we will level against the perpetrators when I track them down? It wouldn’t be worth the gains, not even the political ones. This wasn’t a Separatist plot. They’re smarter than that.”
“You sound like you admire them.”
“I admire pragmatists, Sergeant.”
You turn away without another word, your gaze falling to the screen near the door. In preparation for the troopers’ arrival -- or more aptly, the Republic’s interference -- you had seen to it that a set of speeders had been left near the tracks. You watch the number of klicks tick over to nine and then enter the override master code necessary to bring the tram to a stop. Snatching off the glove from one hand, you press your palm to the display and watch as the blue light flashes to green. The doors hiss open. In the escaping pressure, snow from outside is sucked in on a blistering rush of air, clouding the compartment in a haze of white.
It’s always so damn cold here.
“How many people have that authorization?” Tech asks. His question is quiet, so much so that you are surprised you have heard him over the rush of mountain wind buffeting the sides of the tram. He’s come nearer while your back was turned, his eyes curious. Studious. Yet there’s a bashfulness to them that isn’t disguised by the visor between you, as though he’s trying his best to remember that he’s on a mission, one where distractions, whatever, whoever, their cause, are best forcibly ignored. Still, something in the softness of his voice compared to the others eases the barrier the sergeant’s judgments have managed to raise.
You brush your hands over your front at the snowflakes settling there. Better not to let these men provoke you -- normally, they wouldn’t, and the fact that one of them has more than once is ever more galling the more you think of it. You sigh and do your best not to notice how pleasant a distraction Tech’s question has been.
“The head of our security division and aside from him, the only others are the overseers of each tower. There are seven vaults, seven of us.”
“I see.” His voice is thoughtful, a touch more curious than he should be, but when you step away, he quietly moves to follow.
“Watch your feet.” You glance back and dare a smile at the man behind you. “It’s a long way down. The tracks are slippery. We’ll walk to the next pylon, then take the ladder down. I’ve had people store speeders there.”
“How far to the site?” asks Hunter.
“Two klicks. The tracks from here are compromised. There was a series of some sort of...corrosive blasts. It coated and ate through the sensors, but resisted the cold up here on the mountains. It weakened the tracks for a single, far heavier blast further down.”
Carefully, you drop from the tram car onto the tracks below. Only a few inches separate your feet from the edge that overhangs a three hundred feet drop to the snowy valley floor. One by one, you feel the tracks shake as each man jumps down behind you.
“Kriff...don’t like this.” The rumble of Wrecker’s voice wobbles in the wind, but you’ve a suspicion it has been shaky to start. One of his brother’s -- Crosshair? No, it couldn’t be Crosshair, surely -- murmurs at him, but the words are carried away on the whistling cold. It’s that same sour camaraderie that had tasted so bitter before. You shrug your coat tighter around your shoulders and do your best to ignore the absence of a warmth you long ago stopped feeling.
.
.........
.
In the end, it takes longer to make the walk to the pylon and descend the frozen ladder than it does to reach the incident site. Four speeders, five people. The sharp jerk of Hunter’s helmet had stopped Crosshair from climbing onto the seat behind you. He had shared with Tech, followed by Hunter and Wrecker on the remaining bikes. As the valley’s gusts lash your shoulders, you know you wouldn’t have begrudged the additional warmth that had come from any of them.
Instead, you power your way ahead, squinting into the frost that covers your faceguard. Everything out here is pure, blazing white, and what few jagged, dark rocks from the mountain you can see overhead have given way down here to the endless seasonal snow of Scipio.
And then, at last, like a behemoth skeleton stripped of its meat and left to freeze, the shape of the empty transport rises out from the valley floor. You slow your speeder and call out to the troopers.
“We’re here!”
A few minutes later, the five of you gather round the ruins. As they circle, prowling, dark in a sea of white, the image springs to mind of a school of Firaxan sharks eager to enter a frenzy. But there is no blood in these waters, not that you or the security division had been able to uncover.
Tech’s arm raises and faintly, you hear the ping of a scanner. He looks to you, where you stand some feet away. “Everything was taken?”
You shake your head. “No. Just the case containing the data. They left behind millions in credit ingots. Naturally, we’ve recovered those.”
“Likely too heavy to haul in a hurry,” Tech says quietly, lowering his arm to look at you.
“Sloppy,” you say and once more, you shake your head. “Sweeping in, stealing a single, small target. If the Banking Clan had to worry about the credits, too, our response would have been slower. It would have remained an internal matter and none of you would be here.”
Tech runs his thumb over his goggles to wipe away the snowflakes that have gathered there. He’s studying you, but unlike with the attention from most of the others, you feel only the absence of any rising annoyance. You feel...quieted.
He says, “You’ve thought this through.”
The corners of your mouth quirk, a little numb, but the smile is there. “Tech, would you think poorly of me if I told you I spend a lot of my time thinking like a criminal?”
“I, I...no. When dealing with a problem, I find it often helps to consider the thought process of the ones who imposed it.” He shuffles, snow already building atop his boots, and though you cannot see his face, save for his eyes, you imagine he’s frowning at himself. Why the image is so clear, you don’t like to think about, but you’re left burying your chin into the furs of your coat to hide your growing smile.
“Will you give me a boost?” you ask suddenly. Why you’ve asked, you don’t know; it’s a spur of the moment decision brought on by a glance at the others, eying the single exposed source of ingress atop the tumbled car. Tech gives a start, his eyes wide and magnified behind his visor, and as he stands a little straighter, you’re struck by the size he seems so easily able to conceal. You untangle a hand from your pocket and gesture at the figure of Hunter, scrambling his way up the ice-covered side of the car with help from Wrecker. “It’s just, you’re very tall and I really should babysit the sergeant.”
“Most clones are tall.”
“You’re not like most clones.” You offer him as warm a smile as you’re capable of and this time, you let him see it.
With a noise -- not a word, but a noise -- Tech follows you to the side of the hull, where he waits, uncertain of what to do or how to do it. You reach as high as you can, hands scrabbling for purchase against the smooth sides, only to catch against a ragged dent left by an impact during the fall.
Arms outstretched and straining, you glance at him. “Up, if you would be so kind.”
He clears his throat and a moment later, his hands catch beneath your thick coat, fingers closing firmly over the elongated line of your waist. The weathertech you wear is hardly as bulky as the troopers’ plastoid armor and you can feel the press of his gloved palms as he heaves you up. You swing out for another handhold, find it, and soon, you are standing atop the ruined car. Hunter crouches on the opposite side of the exposed hole, his helmet off and one glove removed as his fingers slide against what must be frigid to the touch.
You look back down at Tech and dip your chin, your smirk too sly, too bold. “Not like other clones at all,” you say, waiting long enough to see him look around, as though to confirm he’s heard what he has. Then, you turn away and carefully make your way to the sergeant. Inside the tram, settling snow does little to hide the score marks from the hail of blaster fire that had rained down on the surviving men inside. It would have been quicker, more merciful, to toss in a grenade or two, but doing so would have risked the cargo. They had died like fish in a barrel.
A new chill spreads up your spine, hardening your face as, once again, you piece together the scene as it had unfolded.
Hunter lowers himself into the hole, pausing halfway down to look up at you. You know the look in his eyes; he doesn’t know if you’ll help him climb back out.
“I won’t leave you down there, Sergeant,” you say quietly, “They won’t let me.”
His brows snatch over his eyes as he lowers himself the rest of the way.
It is the short work of three minutes before you’re reaching a hand down to him. He catches your wrist and with a heave, you pull him up and out.
“That didn’t take long,” you say.
His frown has not faded, only deepened.
“Hard to get a read,” he says, “Too many droids were in the car.”
“A read?” His file had mentioned altered abilities. Defects. You had not known the extent of their effectiveness.
He nods. “I need to climb.” You follow his line of sight up the side of the mountain. At several intervals, areas remain exposed where the falling tram had struck the rock face.
“I don’t understand. It fell. What more is there?”
“Someone - a lot of someones - had to come down after it. That’s not an easy task, and not one likely to be done without leaving some trace behind.”
After a moment’s consideration, you offer a grim nod of agreement. None of the Banking Clan’s security division had swept the mountain side, not to your knowledge. “Alright. Then we climb.”
The going isn’t easy. It’s cold and it’s slick, your fingers buried in snow with each inch gained, but eventually, after seventy or so feet, Hunter somehow finds his way to what he’s looking for. He hoists himself over a narrow, jutting lip, then helps the rest of you.
“Keep an eye out,” he orders, “And watch your feet, Wrecker.”
The big man groans miserably, his shoulders rising and falling -- he does not watch his feet, you notice; he hardly looks down at all.
You kneel, eyes roving the scarred rockface. “This is a point of impact, but we knew that before coming up here.”
“There was a droid here.” Hunter gestures to your left. “Climbed its way from down there after being damaged. It was leaking fluid.” He points out a splash of oily black liquid frozen over the rocks and how he had ever noticed it, you can’t imagine, but the sheer skill behind the man’s senses leaves you feeling uneasy. A gust of wind lashes up from the valley, so strong, you find yourself reaching unconsciously for a grip on the mountainside.
“A droid?” you ask. Then, it dawns on you. Could it be? “It came from down there? That must have been Ayche! It had to have been.”
The men glance at one another as your voice rises in pitch.
“Ayche?” Tech asks. “The bodyguard you mentioned? He’s...a droid?”
“An HK unit. A gift, before he was a friend.”
“Your friend is a Hunter Killer unit? That explains how it made it this far.”
“He’s more than a droid,” you tell them, because they need to understand how important this is. Ayche would never go down without a fight, loyal solely to you. Already, the discovery has sent a wave of relief through you, until even the unyielding cold begins to feel distant. You run a hand over your wrapped hair, a nervous tick you usually do a better job of hiding. “He’s a near perfect replica of the original model discovered on Mustafar, complete with an unaugmented personality core. He...ah, has spirit.”
Hunter edges forward and through his helmet, his voice is a growl. “Those are Separatist models.”
“They were Czerka models thousands of years before the Separatists ever found them,” you reply.
From the corner of your eye, you see Crosshair crouch to brush away a layer of snow from a boulder. Beneath the dark fingers of his glove, faint blaster marks are exposed to the air. He hums something about stun rounds, then says, “I don’t know many assassin droids who retreat.”
“He wasn’t retreating, he was trying to get to higher ground to get out of range of their jammers. If he made it this far, he would have left something behind. Look around, now, all of you.” The elation that has nearly escaped your voice is honed into command; your tone grows sharper, whiplike and demanding, and even Hunter dips his head in agreement.
“Fine. You heard her. Keep your eyes open.”
Tech and Crosshair shuffle along the narrow pass to one side of the outcropping, while Hunter scales to higher ground. Wrecker is left standing, one large hand rising to scratch between the plates of one shoulder. When he catches you looking, an eyebrow raised, he gives a helpless chuckle.
“Don’t wanna start an avalanche,” he says.
It’s a fair point, and one that leaves you sighing. You’ve little opportunity to speak before Hunter’s voice calls down from a few meters above.
“Wrecker! Catch!”
The trooper looks up and when he sees what he’s catching, his arms are outstretched and waiting without protest. You, too, turn to look as Hunter hefts a ruined mass of metal out from a second outcropping. For a terrible moment, you fear the worst, but rather than Ayche’s copper-gold plating, this droid is a standard black-plated model. It falls in a tumble of stiff joints and tangled wires, landing with a rattle in Wrecker’s arms. As the trooper sets the destroyed droid over the ground, you move for a closer look.
“Ayche did this,” you say, “It’s a slicer droid.”
The sound of Hunter’s boots crunching on snow has you looking up. He rights himself from the drop down and says, “It was firing stun rounds, just like Crosshair said. They weren’t trying to destroy your HK unit. Can’t say the same for it.”
“Him,” you correct, “Where’s Tech - there you are.” The other two men seem to have heard Hunter’s discovery and before you can ask your question, Tech is already angling himself carefully from the pass he and Crosshair had taken. He quickly comes to kneel beside you. “How good are you at tracing?” you ask.
“Quite good, if I do say so myself.”
Anyone else, it would sound like bragging, but the way he says it is a statement of simple fact.
You shift back to give him room to flip the droid onto its front, its limbs rattling. He pulls open the back panel with a hum.
“No damage here...lucky...ah.” A spit of sparks has him whipping his hand away with a grumble, then he’s reaching into one of his many packs, only to withdraw what looks like a heavily modified spanner.
Yet, the more he works, the deeper your frown becomes. You study the exposed circuits with a careful eye, face craned dangerously close to the sparks as they fly.
Something’s not right.
“Wait…” you murmur as he picks at a blue wire running crossways over a tangle of others. “Something about this...Stop! Don’t touch that!”
Your hand is out in a flash, so quick it leaves both Hunter and Wrecker flinching back. Their hands move to their blasters, but neither man draws his weapon as your fingers close around Tech’s hand just before he can once again lower his spanner to the droid’s insides. Tech stares at you, his other hand rising to flip his visor up.
“What is it?” he asks. You expect him to be affronted, but instead, the surprise in his gaze shifts slowly to curiosity.
“This is an aftermarket model, manufactured by the Neimoidians. If you continue what you’re doing, you’ll trigger a failsafe and any data will be purged.”
“Nonsense, this is clearly a standard model Separatist slicer --”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.” You raise your eyes to find Hunter watching you keenly, as expected, the man so clearly unhappy despite every inch of discernable skin and expression hidden out of sight.
“Sergeant,” you sneer, “I’m going to draw my knife. What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to stab your man. Not this one.”
A snort from Crosshair breaks the tension that has settled in the air; he drapes his arms over his chest and looks away. “I’d be impressed if you tried.”
You release Tech’s hand, his fingers flexing in response, just a light sort of flutter that strikes you less as relief and more as...something.
As for the droid itself, what isn’t covered by ice and snow is the same black plate you had originally noticed. But the wiring...no, you’re certain the wiring is not that of any Separatist model. It’s close. Too close. And yet...you can’t shake the feeling of looking into a mirror.
It makes the base of your skull itch in warning.
Drawing the blade stored at your back, you scrape at the corner of the hexagonal decal and model number that should be stamped against the droid’s chestplate. Narrow eyed, Tech watches you and you hear his sharp intake of breath as he sees you catch the patch between your thumb and the blade and peel it away.
“It’s a sticker. Cheap. Not meant to pass inspection,” you say, sitting back and meeting Hunter’s eyes with a glare. “I suspect you’re all familiar enough with droids like these to know the Separatist Alliance hasn’t quite resorted to children’s decorations.”
Tech looks from you to the others, who have all inched nearer. “She’s right. This is meant to mislead.”
“Indeed,” you reply, “Tech, you’ll find that the wiring is backwards. It’s a trademark quirk of the aftermarket. This is hardly a military model, but if you can work around - ”
“I can.”
Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling. Anyone else and the self-assurance would sound arrogant. Once again, he simply sounds...correct.
“These models are common in crime syndicates, if they can be afforded.”
“Which syndicate?” asks Hunter.
“I find speculation distasteful. The Banking Clan have many enemies, but the Senate have even more. But your man...” You spare Tech a glance, only to find he has mirrored you, his eyes large and owlish behind the goggles, “Will tell us for certain. Tech, focus the scan on transmissions to and from Hutt space. Any that would have taken place over the last seventy hours, then go from there.”
For several cold minutes, you watch him work, and when your growing amusement spreads a little too far each time he mutters to himself, you have to push yourself to your feet.
This one could become a very, very bad habit.
Hunter and Wrecker have their heads bowed, occasionally sparing glances at Tech, only to eventually look away, letting him work without interruption. Crosshair stands alone near the outcropping’s edge, overlooking the crash below. He doesn’t stand like a trooper, you realize as you near. His posture is more languid, almost lazy; it conjures the image of a serpent sunbathing before the strike.
The face of his helmet turns slowly toward you as you come to a stop by his side, but when you say nothing, instead taking in the long, jagged stretch of stainless snow in the valley, he, too, seems content to remain silent.
It takes a minute or two for him to break it. His voice is quiet and once again, that snake-like image slithers through your mind. “Do you really believe they’ll execute you for this? Seems messy for the IGBC.”
He’s not wrong.
It would be messy for the IGBC.
Anyone else and you could turn the question back on them, bat your eyes, and ask, Are you worried for me? But with Crosshair, even after so short a time in his acquaintance, something tells you it’s the wrong thing to say. Instead, you feel your brow wrinkle as your gaze slips to the empty transport. It had all gone so very wrong, so quickly. A good plan. A profitable plan. The right thing to do.
“I’m surprised you’re asking that question.” There’s an unpleasant scrape in your voice and though you warn yourself not to, you find yourself turning your face up to look at him, at the eyes behind the dark slits. “You know what it’s like to be expendable. There’s always someone quicker, cleverer. It’s only ever a matter of time.”
It isn’t a smile you hear crackling through his vocoder when his reply comes, but a smirk, dry and truthful. “We need to find ways to keep ourselves valuable, wouldn’t you say?”
He’s not saying anything you haven’t said to yourself before, but hearing someone say it -- a man whose only purpose has ever been so soak up blaster fire -- it sends an unwelcome sense of unease slicing through your stomach.
Then, before you can agree, or tell him to stop dragging the ugly, little voice in your mind into the light, you hear a cry of triumph from behind you.
“I have it!” calls Tech. His voice echoes down the mountainside, bright, giddy, and so very different from the low, dark rasp of Crosshair. If necessary, you’ll tear out this new fatalism by the root. If it’s his, it’s proving contagious. Worse, it won’t do you any good. You’ve seen it make people desperate or lazy in equal measures. But not you, no more than it already has. You’ve lost Ayche, you won’t lose yourself, too. Not when there’s so much depending on you.
So many dangerous people to disappoint.
Straightening, you turn away from Crosshair and move swiftly to Tech’s side.
“Play the recording,” you demand, then for whatever reason, more softly, you add on a glance, “Please.”
The others have gathered around as a static-ridden transmission begins with a whir from the droid’s innerworkings.
“Trader was right,” announces Tech, then he looks at you, “You were right. The transmission originates near our coordinates, but it was sent to Nar Shaddaa.”
Hunter, however, folds his arms as the others look toward him.
When he doesn’t immediately answer, you do.
“We are heading out.” It’s been a long-engrained second nature by now for your voice to shift ever so subtly, for your shoulders to square and your chin to lift when orders are given. And Hunter, his own posture tightens just perceptibly enough that you read the challenge for what it is. “Your squad has a mission, Sergeant, one that isn’t complete.”
“What we have is a dead end. Finding blackmail on Nar Shaddaa is easy, finding the right blackmail is like looking for a needle in a Mantellian haystack. It’s a big planet. Crowded. We need more to go on than a transmission. Tech, can you pinpoint the sector?”
“The Corellian sector. Provided, of course, that, too, is not a feint.”
A burst of static air fizzles against the wind as Hunter sighs. “That’ll have to do for now.”
“Ha!” A massive fist pumps into the air and it’s a mystery how Wrecker’s helmet stays on with the grin he’s undoubtedly sporting. “We are headin’ out! Let’s get off this planet. Is the lady coming with us?”
“I’m not leaving you any choice in the matter. I’ve contacts in the casino underground that you lack. The Corellian sector may be pro-Republic, but that armor will put up more walls than it brings down. Aside from that, I should remind you that the data must be returned uncompromised.”
Hunter’s voice contains an edge it had lacked before as he says, “That sounds an awful lot like you think we’re going to steal it.”
“I think there’s a good chance you would deliver it straight to your commanders and then on to the senator. That’s not how this goes. I must be the one to return that data. It’s the only way I don’t conveniently slip off the edge of my own tower a week from now.” At this, there’s a slight twitch from Crosshair, just the brush of fingertips against his helmet, as if he’s moved to stifle a chuckle no one’s heard. You stride swiftly to the edge of the outcropping and take a moment to straighten your coat. When the collar has been patted down, your scarf straightened, a new calm descends over you. You key in a set of coordinates to the commlink on your arm and the single breath it takes to do so fills your lungs with frosted air. There’s a ping of confirmation; a secondary transport will arrive to carry the troopers back to Tower Besh.
You continue, “But all this debate is moot. I’m accompanying you. Officially, personally, choose whatever capacity you prefer.”
The sergeant’s shoulders hitch up around his ears, so tense they might fracture if the wind grows any stronger, and it is only then that you see Tech inch carefully nearer to him. “It may be a good idea,” he says, quietly, “We have few contacts on Nar Shaddaa. Tracing someone and finding them are two different matters.”
It’s a gentle suggestion, one from a man trying to make another see logic when instinct has gotten in the way. He hasn’t said it for you, but you find yourself grateful all the same. There’s an uncomfortable, foreign skip in your chest, a strangling that doesn’t belong in you, and you force yourself to look away just as Tech turns toward you.
He begins to speak, but you’re starting to find his voice too pleasant and reasonable for the throb behind your eyes. You cut him off and wish you didn’t notice the wrinkle that appears between his eyes.
“We’ve wasted enough time,” you say from over your shoulder, voice knotted, too fragile to be as cold as you hope. “I will see to it that your ship is refueled and meet you there.”
With that, you leave them.
The way back is colder and lonelier than the first trip had been, but you are used to being cold and lonely, and there is comfort to be found in how things should be.
You remember the days when his hand used to shake. But maybe those, too, had been your imagination. A faraway summer dream that is no longer as vivid as it used to be, until you find you can’t quite make the warm colors fit into stark black-white reality.
You close your eyes and try harder to remember, but cold wet is seeping into your kneecaps and the only warmth that comes flashing through your mind is an old one, from rough hands and sharp, biting incisors and the grunting ring of beautiful sounds from above and under and around you. Like gnashing teeth, the memory stirs and starts to chew.
“Look at me.” It’s the same voice. His voice, the only one that ever made your own hands shake. “Look. at. me.”
Desperation. A different, harsher, uglier kind than what he used to show you in darkened rooms.
The whisper of a threat - they’re not promises any more, even if the words are the same - presses at your temple. You try to look past him, to the mouth of the dirty, midnight street where he’d chased and caught you. You never could outrun him. The rains on this planet are heavy; pretty sounds pattering all around in an empty alley. But the sky is dark and so is his armor now. Above him, the red, phosphorescent glow of a neon cantina sign leaves his outline hazy. Unclear, like all the memories now.
As you turn your eyes to the gun, the vicious gleam of the barrel is the same color as the hair he had shaved away, and in the tick of slow seconds, you wonder if you had always lived in a dream.
………………
“Look at me.” The flashing white-hot lance of pain at the cusp of your ear drowns your lungs in a sudden breath. You hiss and curse and when the burn is soothed by a wet, hot kiss, you make sweeter sounds. Sometimes you can’t look at him. Sometimes, it’s too much, the tangling that starts in your chest too threatening for you to be brave.
His lips slide from your ear to your mouth. It’s not a kiss. It’s a joining. Until where he stops and you start can’t be separated by the breaths rattling from your mouth into his.
“Look, look…”
His hips rut against yours, hitting deep and grinding. Rooted inside you. It’s almost too perfect, too close, too intense, but your thighs slide around his anyway, damp skin over damp skin, and you lock him to you. He groans into your mouth, tries to thrust, but he’s so deep there’s nowhere to go.
“Look at me.” He mouths the words against your cheek. “Please.”
The plea makes your hands tighten and then tear loose from his shoulder blades, fingers sliding up his neck to snare the silver cropped hair. You dare to open your eyes and catch a flash of it against the neon glow leaking in through the window. You’d never tell him it was pretty.
Another roll of his hips tears a sob loose from you and he swallows it, drinks it like it will keep him alive when he leaves. His heart is pounding, or maybe it’s your own, but the rhythm is a fast-burning flame that coils itself around your insides and makes you flutter around the cock that’s planted inside you. It tears something free inside his chest, a ragged, pitiful sound Crosshair will call you liar for repeating when later, you remind him he’s made it.
He peels back, shoulders rising, arms loosening beneath you just enough that he can watch you.
You look at him, at the honey brown in his eyes lost to something dark. He snatches at the hand you raise to his face and presses a kiss to your palm, canines catching flesh as he pulls away.
He smiles, a white slash of teeth, when he hears you keen. His chest shines in the neon glow, blue-white over brown that’s lost its color; he’s sweating, suffering for this, like you are. He snaps his hips as you wrap your legs tight around his narrow waist, and somehow, he’s deeper still, like the plunge of a knife that’s found your heart. It’s going to bleed you out and leave you happy to die bloody.
You keep looking at him until you can’t. Until you see the knot form in his brow you know so well. Sometimes, you can’t look at each other.
There’s too much that needs to be said that will never be said.
But it doesn’t matter.
Stars flash behind your eyes as the universe goes nova and somewhere, distantly, you hear him curse your name and feel the flood of all he can give you bury itself deep, deep inside.
That’s what matters.
He collapses beside you, an arm pulling you tight, and sighs contentedly as his fingers dance past your stomach to probe at what he’s left behind.
You look at him through the darkness, and trade a smile for a smile.
This is what matters.
He’s here. He’ll always be here.
………….
The hiss of a plasma cartridge charging loosens the memory. Carries it off into the flooded sewer trickling nearby. Gone. Spoiled now. Never to be remembered again.
He’s going to kill you. You wonder if he wants to, or if they’ve told him to do it just to prove to him that he can. You were the easiest to catch. The simplest and sweetest target. His brothers are long lost to the stars, safe on a planet you can’t name.
An ache blooms in your chest, so sharp and shattering you think he’s pulled the trigger too soon.
“Cross…” It’s the first word you’ve said to him since they stole him. Since he left. It’s said so softly, you wonder if he’s heard it.
“Look.” It’s the same susurrous whisper you remember and the echo the soft word sends splintering in your mind brings tears when nothing else does. “Look and see.”
You don’t want to see the ruin.
Your tears are lost to the rain and you wonder if he knows or notices you are weeping. For him. For yourself. For the galaxy that had given and taken him to and from your hands.
The plasma cartridge flares, charged and blindingly bright, like a sun rising. Or setting. You suppose it’s setting now. Strange, how slowly his finger moves to the trigger, unshaken. A stranger’s hand that used to pull your heart out and put it back in again.
You look, because it’s the last thing you can do.
And in the final yawning millisecond, you see him and one last tear falls.
“No good ever comes to the Republic from Banking Clan business,” Hunter tells them, “Let’s get this done and get home, boys.”
Arriving on Scipio with the unhelpful directive of, “be discreet, but do whatever it takes,” the Bad Batch find themselves at the mercy of a stony representative whose allegiances lie with the best deal.
Or, the one where Tech and Crosshair think the reader is as intense as she is pretty.
**************************************
Part One
The office is too empty, too bright. The merciless glare of Scipio’s sun cuts across the room, gleaming unpleasantly from the gilded corners of all the fine furniture and glass. A corner office, inherited from an out-maneuvered relic of the past.
All light and no warmth, you think, not for the first time. Never any warmth. In your early years with the Banking Clan, being stationed here had felt suspiciously like a punishment you hadn’t deserved, a proving ground when you had already proven so much. These days, however, you’ve come to understand that the frigid peaks standing vigil beyond your window are a reminder of how far you have climbed.
Now, as you shift in your chair, the expensive Corellian leather barely squeaking beneath you, you squint past the harsh light filtering in from the floor to ceiling window at your back. It’s all pristine snow on those peaks. Icy. Easy to slip if the cold didn’t kill you first.
Yes, you had climbed and clawed your way up these proverbial mountains. And like the man who last haunted this office, it has left you with so very far to fall.
The early days had been simpler. Smile. Look pretty. Never forget what can be saved for later. You hadn’t forgotten. Beyond the pale blue sky, twinkling out of sight, are worlds fraught with battles, littered with unsuccessful or unlucky tacticians from two sides of a conflict that won’t ever be ended, not truly. You have always preferred to keep your strategizing corporate. Clean.
A frown drags at the corners of your mouth at the uncharacteristic foray into reminiscence of the…
The…
A phrase comes to mind and you allow yourself a small, private smile against the sunlight. The bad old days.
Since then, things have always been kept tidy.
Until now.
An unwanted spur of concern digs in behind your chest as your gaze turns from the window to sweep over the room. To your dismay, you realize why, and realize too clearly that the concern is not solely for yourself.
He should be here.
Things were less empty when he was around, a relic in his own right and your pride and joy and confidant. How proud you had been when you had been informed that you would require a bodyguard. “A mark of success if there ever was one,” you had told the few family members you kept in contact with, of which there were very few, upon being informed of the recommendation after your previous promotion. “Aren’t you proud?” you had wanted to ask. But you had not asked. Better not to make the query when the answer was always so heavy and obvious.
He had become your one and only friend. But he, too, is absent now, and upon permitting the observation, your office seems at once less empty and instead, guttingly, horribly hollow. Two rotations it’s been. Two rotations to give into the inconvenience of noticing.
No, no, you think. You had noticed. Admitting it, that is the phrase that would be more accurate, but if it makes you feel less or more weak, you find you cannot decipher the bitterness creeping up your tongue.
Rising from your seat, you at once miss the meager warmth provided by the leather as the cool office air licks at you. Once upon a time, you had comforted yourself with the promise that one day, you would get used to the cold here. It was one of the few lies you allotted yourself over the years. Crossing the office, the marble floors as white and frosted as the mountain peaks outside resounding crisply beneath your heels, you make your way to the small bar trolley tucked away in one corner. Your last guest, a senator with strong -- unsubtly strong -- ties to the Clan, had complimented your selection of fine whiskeys and other alcohols. You had not admitted then that you did not keep the bar stocked for the guests who were few and far between, but rather for yourself, to chase away the damnable chill in this place.
Your hand stills between decanters, your mind hesitating at the threatening burn that awaits your selection.
A bad habit.
You can imagine that peculiar modulated voice now. “Madam, the faces you make.”
Instead, you shun the alcohol and the ice that never thaws, yet still gets replaced each morning, now resting in a round chest, as gilded as everything else in this room, and reach for the Felucian pear juice. Duller, perhaps, but you don’t need anymore guilt on your conscience.
A sip, then two, settles a gnawing in your stomach you only notice once it passes.
Intolerable, you muse, downing what remains in the glass. The beverage is sweet, almost as sweet as the air outside is cold. Too quiet. Where are -
A rush of air and sliding metal breaks the silence. Glass in hand, your eyes narrow over the rim at the assistant who scuttles in. This one has been particularly insipid since her arrival. The daughter of someone marginally important, she is small and hunched shouldered -- she hasn’t learned, not like you did, and a part of you suspects she never will.
She stops just short of where the tile begins and as she does, your eyes track down her uniform to a pair of shoes that have never been polished. Stars help her.
In a quavering voice, she asks, “Madam?”
You raise a brow.
“We’ve received word. The transport with the troopers has requested permission to land. They’re on their way.”
You set the glass aside, gingerly, its bottom barely clacking against the tray atop the cart. Republic troopers. A battering ram when a scalpel is needed.
“Ah, the Senate’s grand favor,” you murmur.
“Yes, ma’am.”
So many years spent with watchful eyes on you has made you good at hiding your frustrations. You swallow a sigh before it ever rises and allow yourself a brief moment to thumb the crystalline edge of the glass. The senator had warned you.
Your voice is quiet as you instruct the girl, “Get out.”
She scurries gracelessly back through the door. It is an improvement; the last time she had squeaked pitifully before leaving. Perhaps you should have enjoyed the alcohol while you could. If this goes badly, all these nice things, all this luxury will be reassigned, a new name on the door. Such is the way of things -- you know the warnings well.
Until forty-eight hours ago, they had been going so smoothly. An unfamiliar voice at the back of your mind whispers at you. Had you gotten complacent? You never get complacent. You had been warned for star’s sake. Senator Clovis had been all too clear that vaults here on Scipio were being targeted. You had taken that to mean the transports would be targeted as well. Credits were valuable, gold was valuable, as were artifacts and treasures. The Clan stored it all.
But most valuable of all were and would always be secrets.
And secrets...you were very good at secrets. Finding them. Keeping them. Exposing them.
The hand on the glass tightens and through touch or through sound, you sense that just a little more pressure will splinter it. Gently, you lift your fingers.
You’ve got enough messes to clean up already.
.
…………….
.
Two of his brothers look unhappy. Hunter suspects he, too, looks unhappy. Only Crosshair remains unaffected, toothpick lolling from one corner of the man’s thin mouth to the other as he watches the sky shift from icy atmo to the very tips of craggy mountains.
“Looks cold,” rumbles Wrecker from his seat, thick legs kicking out miserably. “Nobody said it was gonna be cold.”
From the pilot’s chair, Tech glances at Hunter, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Now that Hunter can see him full-on, rather than that goggle-obscured side-profile of his, he realizes that he’d been right. Even Tech is unhappy with the assigned locale. Still, the man sniffs and turns back to navigating the gunship.
“It is Scipio,” says Tech.
“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sayin’, a little warning might’ve been nice.”
Crosshair shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, just enough that Hunter knows the sniper is asking for his attention. “I believe Hunter was preoccupied with warning us about the...what was it you called them, Hunter? Denizens?”
“The word does have an apt connotation for the Banking Clan,” Tech mutters. He gives Hunter another look, this one says that he’s no more excited about the prospect than Hunter has been.
Their mission brief had been a strange one. It wasn’t their usual brand of run-and-gun from the sound of things, but it was important to all the right people, and they needed guaranteed success. “Go to Scipio, meet the point of contact, establish the responsible party, recover the stolen data.” It was more or less all they had been told.
Hunter knows his frown is getting deeper, sinking into the lines on his face -- he can feel it pulling at his bandana, and he raises a hand to scrub it away.
“Who is this contact anyway?” asks Crosshair. “You never said.”
“Because I wasn’t told a name. We’re to meet with the, and I quote, ‘Principal Trades Specialist for the InterGalactic Banking Clan.’”
“Trades specialist?” Crosshair plucks his toothpick from between his teeth and for a moment, it takes Hunter longer than he would like to decipher the look on the man’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy...he looks intrigued. Crosshair replaces the toothpick, then says, “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘corporate spy.’”
“Head corporate spy,” Tech says, “If he’s - “
“She, from what I’m told,” corrects Hunter. His frown has yet to go anywhere, so he lets it stay, his hand falling to his lap.
Tech nods. “If she is based here on Scipio, we’re dealing with someone who needs to be watched closely. Some important players are based on this planet.”
Crosshair folds his arms. “Did the spy part give it away, Tech?”
“The Banking Clan part, actually,” Tech replies dryly, “We’ve dealt with spies before. The IGBC is something different. It is...new territory.”
“We’ve also dealt with new territory before.” At this, Hunter hears them all shift, their quick heartbeats settling into a familiar, all’s-well rhythm. His, too, follows. Just in time, it would seem, for the comms to squawk at them as the Marauder banks left and begins its final descent to the landing pad. He stands from the co-pilots seat, the faint tilt of the floor beneath him a familiar calm before the inevitable storm. He looks to Wrecker, who shakes his head, and then offers a grin.
“Might be fun. Never clobbered bad guys with snowballs before.”
There’s a snort from Tech and despite himself, Hunter smiles.
.
**************************************
.
Ten minutes later, they are suited up and disembarking into a cloud of snow flurries and ice crystals. The Banking Clan’s guards are as heavily armored as some of the Separatist patrols Hunter’s encountered. He scowls beneath his helmet. This should be a job for Jedi -- if the Jedi weren’t all dispatched to the war front.
Soldiers...they don’t deal with these sorts of people. Not well and not effectively. Too much bad blood between the Republic and profiteers like these.
He motions at his brothers to close ranks, their familiar presences a comforting reminder that this isn’t anything new, not really. It’s a mission like any other.
As the frosted cloud clears ahead of them, the guards, in their gilt armor and insulated cloaks, make way, too much way, Hunter thinks, for the clearance to be for a group of Republic troopers.
Then he sees her.
Half camouflaged by the swirling winds and clad in half a dozen shades of gray and silver, her shoulders draped in white fur, she stands waiting for them, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. She could be a diplomat, a Jedi even, if not for the gleam in her eye. It’s a cold thing, sharper and as frostbitten as this frozen world itself.
He’s not the only one to have noticed. Beside him, Hunter hears Crosshair draw in an appreciative breath so quiet no one without incredible senses would notice it. In his periphery, he catches an almost imperceptible twitch of Tech’s helmet as his brother spares him a questioning glance.
When the woman speaks, her voice is crisp, professional. “Clone Force 99, welcome.” She does not smile, but her eyes track to each of them, lingering too long, as though somehow looking past the armor to the men beneath. She introduces herself with a name that sounds too soft for the title she wears. Then, she gives them a crystalline smile. “But you may call me Trader, if you please.”
“Trader?” It is Wrecker who asks the question, finally distracted from the snow and ice. “Sounds like…”
Another smile, this one not quite as cool as the first. Amused, Hunter thinks, though how benign that amusement is, he can’t tell, and it makes his skin itch beneath his blacks. “Like traitor?” she hums. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?”
She steps aside and gestures at them to follow. “With me, gentlemen. First, we’ve a meeting. Afterwards, we will take a tram to the vaults, then from there, speeders to the site of the incident.”
“‘Incident’ is an awful clean way to say ‘bloody heist,’” says Hunter as he moves to follow. Her gaze slides to him, her stride never slowing. Shoulder to shoulder with the woman, he has the uncomfortable instinct to slow his steps, to lag behind, as though if he isn’t careful, a blade might slide between his ribs on a blink. He pushes aside the urge, then asks, “How many people were lost?”
“Enough,” she replies. “One could even say too many.”
“But not you?”
“Must someone say something for you to believe they think it?”
Behind him, Crosshair snorts, but does not comment. Hunter lets the statement slide, though the itch he’d felt earlier is heating to a burn now. Together, she leads them through a set of gleaming durasteel doors into a foyer as stark as it is grand.
“Proceed through those doors.” She crooks a finger to their left. “Senator Amidala has requested a meeting in...eighteen minutes. I will join you shortly.”
Wrecker whistles, the sound too sharp to come from beneath his helmet, and Hunter glances back to see that the man has removed it, his one good eye roving the pristine interior. With a sigh, Hunter follows suit. It’s not exactly warm here, but out from the planet’s whipping winds, it’s close enough that even he can fool his sensitive skin into enjoying it. Soon, they are all unmasked. The woman - Trader - lingers long enough to observe them.
Her expression is...unreadable. There is no twinkle of bemusement in her eyes, not the first twitch of surprise. Normally, when the helmets come off, it gets at least some sort of reaction, gives him some kind of measure.
Now, the only read Hunter gets is the fact that he can’t get a read on her -- and that, he doesn’t like. There’s no trusting people who have become so numb.
Her gaze slips between Crosshair and Tech, where it lingers on the latter for seconds longer than it had the rest of them. Something in her frigid eyes warms, the ice of her expression cracking just enough that she might be pleased by what she sees. And Tech...for all his usual detachment, has no datapad to bury his nose in now, and he notices.
Hunter thinks the woman lets him notice.
His brother stands a little straighter, eyes flicking nervously to Hunter behind his goggles. Stumped, for lack of a better word. For once, flat out puzzled.
Then, without a word, Trader looks back to Hunter and inclines her head. “Stay warm, gentlemen. I will see you soon.”
She is gone behind a pair of adjacent doors without another word.
No sooner do they watch the durasteel whisper shut, than does Wrecker drive his arm into Tech’s side with a chuckle. Tech winces with a hiss and waves the man away.
“Heh, she likes you.”
“I hoped it was my imagination.” Crosshair’s lip curls, his eyes narrowing until he looks away, and Hunter wonders if they’ve been reflected back at him through the shine of Tech’s goggles.
Tech runs a hand over the back of his head. “What do you think, Hunter?”
“I think she’s Banking Clan, through and through. We’re not among friends here.”
“If we let her alone with Tech, things might get friendlier -”
“Wrecker.”
Hunter scowls. Another voice has echoed his own and he looks to see Crosshair, arms folded, rocking back on a foot to glare at the wampa-sized man.
Tech clears his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the briefing room?”
His heart rate, harder to hear away from the tight confines of the Marauder, sounds schoolboy quick and Hunter wishes, not for the first time, that his brother was more inclined to find company in their off-duty hours than he was. Pretty faces were fine - Hunter himself was inclined to enjoy them - but something about the mask this one wore was dangerous.
Wrecker’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Did she say Senator Amidala was waiting?”
“She did. The commander warned us the Senate was at play here.”
“That’s not our usual playground though, is it?” Crosshair is still scowling, his arms folded more tightly now than they had been. All that characteristic suspicion exacerbated by annoyance that has set in and won’t leave him. It makes his eyes hard, his narrow features sharpened and cold beneath the glare of sunlight on durasteel.
Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not, but I feel better knowing Amidala’s behind us on this.”
“That makes one of us,” says Crosshair.
“Two,” Tech interrupts, his voice crisp; back to himself, Hunter realizes, his relief warm down to his fingertips, until he isn’t sure why he’d been worried in the first place.
“Three! I like Amidala.”
“We know, Wrecker.” Tech’s smile is gentle, even as he rolls his eyes. “The poster by your bed speaks for itself.”
Hunter’s gaze slides to his remaining brother, the smile that had spread turning crooked, then fading. “Crosshair?”
It’s always been an unsettling characteristic of Crosshair’s that his eyes, as brown as all of theirs, manage to be so very cold when the mood hits him. The look in them is not unlike what he had witnessed in the woman.
The observation tightens Hunter’s throat and he swallows it, turning away, and hopes not to notice it again.
You know how much I know about Resident Evil? Enough to get my ass smacked by a jacked Nick Valentine, that’s how much.
This is horrible, by the way. I started it and barely knew enough about Leon to get through it. This is worst thing I’ve written in 10 years and there’s not even any porn. Can you say porn on tumblr now? Porn. Huh. Porn porn porn.
Five Times You Meet Leon Kennedy
1.
The first time you met Leon Kennedy, the world had already ended. The wind through Raccoon City smelled of decay and bodies and you were used to it now. When people realized what was happening, that they were dying or going to die, they swept en masse towards strategic points. The police station was closest to you - but the gates were shut and the doors barricaded before you ever got through. The ones who stayed to beat at the entrance were still there now. They moved slower and smelled of blood and carnage.
You had not stayed; you determined you would wait it out - two weeks - and then you would make your way out of the city. You’re scavenging near the police station when you hear the shots ring out. The place has been dead - literally - for days. Lights out, only the streets around the building breathing with the infected. Those streets pulse and sway as you maneuver through store fronts, your head low, always low. You can’t get into the station, but the nearer you get, the clearer the shots echo.
The front would be suicide, but there’s a gate around the back, one guarded by tall, iron fencing that you have tried before to climb over. You ignore it. You ignore the front. Instead, you climb up a fire escape on the building next door and you stay there until you are positive that someone is alive on the second floor of the station. Once or twice, you think you see a flash from the windows, but the rain comes down harder and in the minutes that follow, darkness screeches below.
And then you see him - his shadow passing smoothly down the second-story hall - and your heart snares in your throat until you can’t breathe or speak. Lightning flashes, frightens the both of you, and he, him, the man in the window, turns by chance to look at the rusted platform across the alley.
He sees you, his silhouette hesitating, and you know he thinks you’re one of them, you’re a dead thing.
But you aren’t. And your arms wave frantically through the rain. He sees you because he lunges for the window and forces it open. The beam from a flashlight shines across the way and you wince against it but you don’t avert your eyes.
“You’re alive!”
His voice is young and his words bring a stinging heat to your eyes.
“So are you,” you call back, imagining a smile on that face you can’t quite see.
“What’s your name?” His voice is a kind one, you think, one that sounds like trust. You wonder what he hears in yours when you answer him.
He tells you that he’s Leon and that he’s with the RPD. You want to ask how many survivors there are, but you don’t, because you know the answer already. There’s only him, alone in all that building. The space between you feels like a universe; it’s going to swallow one or both of you in a cataclysm.
“I can’t get to you,” you call to him, and you wish immediately that you had lied, because what you’ve just said is a cruelty the stranger - Leon - with the young voice and the gun doesn’t deserve.
“You’ll have to be careful,” you continue in a voice that is both loud and soft, “Be careful. I - I can’t get to you.”
Leon hesitates. You notice his shadow sway behind the light.
“There’s a gate in the back -”
I know. You do know. You heard it rattle, can hear it rattle.
“ - I can’t unlock it. Don’t try to come that way.” His voice steadies, stronger now, and before the outbreak, you don’t recall recognizing resolve in a stranger’s voice. “I’m going to open the garage. I’ll find a way through.”
He can’t stay there, in the police station, he means.
“Good luck,” you tell him. You mean it.
“If you can get to that side of the street...I’ll find you.”
That voice sounds like a promise.
2.
The second time you met Leon, he kept his promise. He found you and you want to cry because he looks like an angel with his pale hair and eyes. There’s kindness in his face, even when kindness stopped belonging weeks ago. He hasn’t forgotten your name in the hours since you first saw him.
You cry when he touches your shoulder.
There’s a woman with him who sneers when the tears roll down your cheeks, but Leon feels the relief like you do. The pads of his fingers curl into your shoulder; he’s not trying to calm you, you realize as you swallow down the emotions that are strangling you, he’s steadying himself.
“Do you have a gun?” the woman with Leon asks you.
You don’t, but you have a knife and a heavy metal pipe that has left an ache down one of your arms.
“Where are you going to go?” you ask. You’re talking to Leon and it’s just as well, because the woman has gone to the windows to peer out into the street.
“Following her,” he replies.
That’s the decision then. You’ll follow her too.
3.
The third time you meet Leon, he’s staggering across a scaffold that is going to collapse beneath him. You cry out for him; you reach out but your shoulder has a bullet wound to match his. Ada had put it there and called it a favor when she left you dying on the tram.
But you didn’t die. You clawed and you kicked and followed the gunshots until there was too much blood leaking out of you. Then you had crawled.
“Ada,” your voice cracks, weak, and you’re not sure if Leon can hear you over the fires burning behind him, “Ada, she - “
“Dead,” he breathes down from the ledge above you. He had heard you after all - somehow, by chance, between the explosions and splitting steel.
The ground rocks and spills you onto your knees as Leon clambers down a latter towards you. You find your feet before he can reach you, but his arm goes around you anyway. This time you need it - you think you’ll die without it.
“Want to stay here?” There’s a smile on your lips as your fingers close over the top edge of his vest to keep yourself on your feet. “Enjoy the view and die?”
Blond hair that has gone orange in the firelight falls over one eye as Leon shakes his head. He’s delirious, because he smiles back before dragging you along, one arm snug around your back.
4.
You don’t think there will be a fourth time.
They take Leon and the little girl, Sherry, and you don’t expect to see him again. Your heart breaks over a stranger. Losing a man you’ve known only a few days is like losing an arm or organ - you’re bleeding out slowly in the middle of military tents and a quarantine zone. They tell you they’ll let you go, but you stop believing them after a week.
But Leon...Leon keeps his promise.
He finds you.
With your head tucked over a packet of field rations, he pushes through a passing throng of soldiers and calls your name. You choke on a mouthful of rice and kidney beans and shove the packet to the nearest survivor - there are only a few and they are all hungry - and you run to him.
Your arms wrap around this man you barely know, but he holds you tight, like he’s grateful, and you both rock on your feet there in the middle of camp.
“Where did they take you?” you ask.
“They...wanted to talk to me about Sherry.” His hands are on your bare arms for the first time, hot-palmed on the raw-scrubbed skin beneath the sleeves of your t-shirt. He says, “They may want to talk to you, too.”
Leon on sees the hesitation on your face before even you know it’s there. “Come on,” he smiles, the edges of it broken, “Don’t worry about it now. Let’s take a walk.”
You walk for minutes, tens of them, and every few steps his arm brushes yours.
“They want you to stay with them, don’t they?”
You say it so that he doesn’t have to. He nods, slowly, and your hand finds his. This time, the pair are you aren’t dragging one another out of danger, this time you can squeeze just enough to feel the grooves of Leon’s palm.
He squeezes back.
5.
When Leon finds you for the fifth time, a badge hangs from the lanyard around your neck. Your suit is as black as the 9mm holstered at his thigh. He’s harder now than he was two years ago, healed over and tougher like the scar on your shoulder.
The debriefing hurts you - you watch his face and feel cold when it looks like the others of the men with whom he marched in. One of the suits - one of your people - introduces you to him as another survivor from Raccoon City and you haven’t known fear like you do in that moment for the last two years. Because Leon’s mouth is a straight, firm line and his eyes spark with nothing. He waits until the officers are gone to remember you.
“You stayed,” he says, filling up the doorway to your office like a shadow. His clothes are dark, his arms scarred. His eyes are liars eyes - you see that now as you look up from your desk. They hadn’t given away the truth to the anyone else in the meeting; they had fooled you, too.
Standing from your chair, you move around to his side of the your desk.
“So did you,” you say.
The words sound like accusations - yours and his.
“How...how have you been?”
“Alive,” you reply, “Safe.”
His mouth quirks at one corner and he lifts one arm carelessly in your direction. “Care to share any pointers?”
“Find some rookie cop you can reliably outrun and who shoots better than you.”
Leon smiles, suddenly young like you remember, and you return it. It grows, mutates until it’s too big and laughter interrupts the quiet of the office. When it tapers off, dying like everything inevitably does, you are left nodding.
“I missed you, Leon.”
He laughs a half-breath, glancing at the floor and then back to you.
“Missed you first,” he says, “Nothing’s gone the way -”
“The way it should have? The pretty way?” you supply.
“Yeah,” he seems satisfied, “the pretty way.”
He takes a step closer, more in your office than out of it, and you’re glad the space between you is closing. A mile is better than a universe. Beneath his body armor, his steps are timid, inch by inch, and you meet him halfway.
“You can’t stay, can you?”
You know the answer.
“They won’t let me.”
You knew it.
Two years feel suddenly short as you dip your head forward to rest your forehead beneath his chin. You don’t expect his arms to go around you, don’t need them to, but they do and he presses you to his chest as though he needs it.
Your words are muffled by his nearness.
“Be safe wherever you go, Leon.”
He nods - you feel the rise and fall of his chin against your hair followed by the burn of his lips at your temple. Red-hot, there just long to brand you.
“When I get back,” he says, promises, “I’ll find you.”
