"You know, for a second there, I thought you were finally going to do it." For Crosshair/Tech if you want? :3
Whups what do you mean I went and combined this with @badthingshappenbingo prompt 'Knocked Out'? I hope you like it!
Prompt list here for anyone who wants to request an almost kiss! :)
Now with fanart! Check the reblogs for amazing art from @letshareapapou!
Fandom: The Bad Batch
Characters: Crosshair/Tech
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1150
Not proofread, I can see there's repetition but I'm too tired to fix it right now I hope you enjoy regardless
The ship shuddered and lurched, the narrow confines ringing with the wailing of sirens which screamed out-of-sync with the pulsing emergency lights.
“Keep ‘er steady, Hunter!”
Wrecker’s roar from the gunner’s mount cut the command even above the emergency sirens. In response, the Marauder screamed into a barrel-roll, artificial gravity slewing as it fought against the centrifuge of the spin.
“I’m tryin’,” came the growling response as in the cockpit Hunter hauled on the control column, a dizzying blur of space and laser-fire corkscrewing past the front viewport. “They’re not making it easy…”
Trapped in a low-orbit dogfight, harried by swarms of Seperatist drones, they were in desperate need of a clear jump to hyperspace. An escape route which wouldn’t be available to them until Tech patched the leak in the hyperdrive.
“Any time, Tech,” grit out Hunter, the ship shuddering with another raking pass of laser-fire across the hull.
Crammed in the narrow confines of the engine service hatch, chest-to-chest, Tech and Crosshair were rattled against the jutting bowels of the ship.
“Perhaps if your evasive manoeuvres were more successful,” bit back Tech in annoyance, straining with both hands deep inside the hyperdrive unit. Unable to brace himself against the Marauder’s roiling dives, that role fell to Crosshair, who anchored him in place as best he could.
Beneath their feet the engine whined louder, shrieking a frenzy-pitch as it fed power to the deflector shields. Artificial gravity flickered further in response, a nauseating lurch as it grasped clumsily at the clones in an effort to keep running against the power drain.
“C’mon Tech.” Crosshair’s scratchy voice caught on the exhale, the engineer’s name a prayer. “Get us out of here.”
He could have sworn he felt the racing tattoo of Tech’s heartbeat, pressed close as they were. Doffing armour whilst under attack had grated against every natural instinct that had been trained into them since birth, but it was the only way both of them would fit inside the cramped hyperdrive hatch. So Tech was stripped down to his utility belt and leg armour, and Crosshair had shed his pauldrons and chest-plate also.
Without their helmets, Crosshair could almost taste the adrenaline in the air. It tightened in his chest, his own thudding pulse singing in time to the alarms blaring around them.
Reaching overhead, every line of Tech’s body was a taut symphony of stress. The pupils of his brown eyes flickered and danced behind his goggles, searching for the problem, calculating the million computations it might need to fix it.
Without even thinking, Crosshair spread his hand in the small of Tech’s back, an urgent pressure both securing and urging him on.
“Aha.”
Tech’s hand darted out, snagging a drive wrench which was floating past in their faltering gravity. In moments he had delved back into the hyperdrive, and the screaming strain of the electronics suddenly oscillated back into harmony.
Above them, the reconnected system must have registered on Hunter’s flight control panel; his wordless whoop of victory reached them before the ship slewed a tight reversal, the Marauder’s skeleton protesting the violent turn.
Euphoric as the hyperdrive spun to a high-pitched whine, Crosshair grabbed Tech’s face in both hands, a rare grin lighting his features as he pulled their faces close.
“You kriffing genius,” he breathed, adoration glowing in his eyes –
– before a stray wrench adrift in the Marauder’s careening motion connected with his temple, and everything went dark.
*
Crosshair came to with a pounding headache, but at least he resurfaced to the erratic sound of a limping hyperdrive and not the rumbling explosions of a space-battle.
Sitting up with long fingers pressed to his forehead, he heard a pleased hum.
“Aha. You are awake.”
Rolling to sit on the edge of the bunk, Crosshair blinked the world to focus to find Tech sitting across from him, at the foot of Hunter’s rack.
“We made it out?” he said, a cautious test of both their escape, and whether he could get the words out of his mouth in the same order they were in his head. His thoughts still felt scrambled and he winced as he fingered the lump at the side of his head.
“Of course we made it out.” From anyone else it might sound boastful; with Tech, it was a matter-of-fact statement. “We plan to rendezvous with the 212th, hitch a ride with one of their Venators to a planet-side stop were the hyperdrive can be properly inspected. But, it is holding for now.”
At that, the faintest of thin smiles curled the corner of his lips. Perhaps he could be a little prideful after all.
Crosshair grunted his agreement, still groggy.
Even the pounding of his headache wasn’t enough to muffle the alarm he felt when Tech leaned in close, one arm braced either side of him, bracketing him into the bunk. He swayed back warily, mouth dropping open to speak but finding nothing to say.
"You know, for a second there, I thought you were finally going to do it."
Tech’s voice was low and serious, his gaze intense as he hovered inches from Crosshair’s face. A small crinkle had formed between his brows, one that gave him an endlessly endearing look of earnestness that Crosshair couldn’t help but admire even as he swallowed nervously.
Tech’s proximity was scrambling his already muddled thoughts, and part of him wanted to object to the unfairness of being speared by this pop-quiz almost the moment he awoke. “Finally do what?” he asked, a warning croak as he leaned back a bit further.
For an agonising span of heartbeats, Tech continued to hover in his space, the air charged between them. Crosshair’s chest rose and fell shallowly, trying hard not to read too much into the other’s cool, discerning gaze.
Eventually Tech leaned back with a wordless, thoughtful noise, regarding Crosshair levelly across the tight bunk space.
“I cannot deny that the adrenaline of the situation was certainly intoxicating,” he continued, seeming to have had half a conversation to himself. “Perhaps next time you can choose a marginally less life-threatening moment to, ah… attempt a move?”
Heat rose in his cheeks as he realised that perhaps he and Tech were on the same page about this. He just hadn’t expected the engineer to state it so openly.
“The stim I gave you for the pain will wear off in an hour or so,” said Tech abruptly, changing the conversation. “Come find me when you need more.”
He was turning to leave when Crosshair caught his hand, determinedly lacing their fingers together.
Tech paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Crosshair remained seated, but despite the pounding in his head he summoned a weary smile.
“You really are a kriffing genius,” he murmured, with quiet pride.
An almost imperceptible smile, and an even softer squeeze of his hand.
“Next time,” said Tech, and the promise hung between them like a horizon.
Bad things happen bingo "The patience has left the building" with Tech if you want? :3
*The actual prompt is ‘The PatieNT has left the building’... I have no idea if this is a misreading, a typo or an autocorrect mistake, but I loved it so I ran with it!
I'll tag you as well if I do the proper one ^_^
Just Desserts
Fandom: The Bad Batch
Characters: Tech, Omega, Crosshair, Hunter
Rating: G
Word Count: 1575
Omega sat at the kitchen counter, kicking her legs happily as she watched Tech pipe mounds of fresh cream into elegant, swirling crowns atop the plethora of sweet delights.
Some of the towering pastry confections were definitely worthy of cutlery, rather than being eaten with sticky fingers and messy chins. With a wistful sigh as she glanced at the ornate fine-china plates, Omega reached out to nudge hopefully at the edge of a platter of fancies.
The sharp rap of a metal whisk left a lash of cream across her knuckles and she snatched her hand back, sucking at the smarting – if tasty – mark.
“I wasn’t going to eat them,” she objected, her attempt at a plaintive tone somewhat undermined by the way she licked the flecks of cream with an irreverent grin. “I was admiring. They look nice.”
“They really do,” Crosshair echoed, appearing over her shoulder and reaching out to snag his own ill-gotten treat.
Tech fended his twin’s attack off even more fiercely, parrying multiple darting strikes until the sniper gave up, unable to evade his brother’s defence of the delicacies.
“I am sure,” he said stiffly, “there will be plenty of leftovers for you vultures to pick over… after Ms Genoa has left.”
Crosshair’s face split in anticipation of teasing, but he had barely drawn breath before Tech threatened him with a brandished piping bag.
“It is not a date,” he said forcefully, face scrunching with annoyance. “Phee has been incredibly good to us. It is fitting that we repay her kindness.”
“With sweet treats,” Crosshair deadpanned in an exaggerated stage-whisper, leaning into Omega. “Wrecker always says, the quickest way to someone’s heart–”
“–is upwards under the ribs with a good sharp knife,” chirped Omega before, slightly crestfallen, “No, wait, that’s what Hunter says…”
Crosshair was too busy wheezing to correct her, and Tech gave heartfelt eye-roll and finished piping the last of the treats with a flourish.
“Now for the fresh fruit,” he announced, shooing his siblings away from the counter as he bustled. “Kindly make yourselves scarce. The recipe does not call for an audience.”
Crosshair and Omega’s idea of ‘scarce’ was the far side of the small kitchen island, where they could continue to poke and prod and threaten the supply of fresh berries and fruits which were ready-washed and laid out in small wicker punnets. Tech continued to deflect their advances with increasingly short-tempered snippy comments, trying to get on with crafting fruit compote, until eventually he slammed the spatula down and demanded, “Out!”
“But Tech,” began Omega, only to be interrupted by the swishing utensil.
“I said out!”
Sharing a semi-guilty look – or at least, Omega’s was semi-guilty, accompanied by a sheepish grin, Crosshair appeared as unruffled as always – the lanky sniper scooped an arm around their sister’s shoulders and guided her from the room.
Pausing in the doorway, he shot a lazy grin back at his twin.
“Sure you don’t need any help?”
Tech’s gaze whipped to him, razor-sharp, and Crosshair gave a remorseless grin. When it came to things like this, Tech’s ire slid easily off his Teflon heart.
“Just asking,” he jibed, tone teasing, before ducking out the room before Tech could retaliate.
*
Tech had just finished glazing delicate swirls of compote to the edge of a platter of fruit when Hunter strolled into the room, nostrils flaring at the fruit-and-pastry scents lacing their air with their sweetness.
“Smells good,” he commented, drawing level with the counter and running an appreciate gaze over the array of confections Tech had prepared. In a blink his knife was out from his forearm sheath, tumbling elegantly over his fingers before spearing a crisp slice of meiloorun from the edge of the plate.
It was half way to his mouth when the motion stalled, aborted by the tightness of Tech’s lightning-fast grip clamping round his wrist. Hunter’s eyes widened, uncertain, watching Tech warily whilst his mouth still hung open, waiting for the bite of fruit which hadn’t arrived.
“If you want a piece of fruit you will ask for it,” Tech scolded, voice dangerously level and intense as he stared his brother down. “If you are given a piece of fruit, you shall sit at the table and eat it with real cutlery. Not a vibroknife.” He released Hunter’s wrist with a shake, giving him an irate shove. “Now sit down and behave like you are civilised.”
Frozen by the unexpected tirade, Hunter plonked immediately and obediently into the nearest chair. The slice of fruit hung untouched from the tip of his blade, a guilty flash of sticky sweetness as the former sergeant struggled for words.
“Please,” he eventually managed, “can I have a slice of melioorun?”
Hunter did not do meek, nor polite. In his confusion though his tone was an approximation of both those things, although Tech folded his arms, not mollified in the slightest.
“No. You can wait, like everyone else does.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Hunter extended his arm and offered the speared fruit back to Tech. His brother snatched it with a haughty huff, inspecting the damage before throwing it in the discards.
With Tech seemingly reabsorbed in his task, Hunter shifted awkwardly.
“Can I go?”
“No,” snapped Tech. “You can make yourself useful. Why don’t you lay the table.”
Sliding from his seat, overwhelmed with confusion, Hunter padded obediently to the dresser and began to retrieve glasses and cutlery.
“’kay, Tech,” he muttered, glancing at the doorway only to see Crosshair doubled over in silent mirth, holding his sides. “Whatever you say.”
Want to check out the other Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts? Find them Here and make a request! :)
Summary: Boba Fett is his father's only child, even if millions of men share his face. That doesn't stop Omega from calling him her brother, or from trying to win him over to her side. It worked with Crosshair, after all.
Four times the only unaltered clones of Jango Fett encounter one another throughout their lifetimes.
The first time Boba sees her is in a dingy cantina on a space station he doesn’t even remember the name of. He’s just finished an easy solo bounty—needed space from the rest of Krayt’s Claw after some banthashit argument or other, their loud, bickering voices grating on him like durasteel on durasteel. He is seated at the bar, nursing a bitter-tasting liquid that he’s probably, technically, still too young for.
The bartender hadn’t asked, hadn’t cared, had just slid over his order and swiped his credits up. No one questions a bounty hunter in Mandalorian armor. Who knows if the guy had even realized he was serving a teenager. Boba keeps his helmet on whenever he’s alone, lifts it only high enough to tip the alcohol down his throat every so often. He’s just had a growth spurt, might even be as tall as Jango now.
He’s thinking of his dad. Wondering if Jango would’ve been the one to offer him his first drink, maybe after a successful hunt together. Instead, it had been Aurra, sneering and laughing when he choked on the shot of spotchka she’d shoved at him, the same way she’d sneered at him later when he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger to kill the clone commander on their hunt for Mace Windu.
The girl walks in with a pack of mercenaries. The men with her are dressed in well-worn armor, blasters conspicuous at their hips. One’s a giant, at least two meters tall, built like a tank, the teeth of some creature painted on his visor adding to the overall effect. Boba knows better than to catalogue just the most obvious threat, though. The other two men may be smaller—one seeming inattentive with his nose buried in a datapad, the other scoping out the crowd—but he has no doubt they know how to use those weapons to their advantage. The scuffs on their armor prove they’ve survived enough to be dangerous.
It’s strange, paired with the way the one with a wicked-looking vibroblade tucked into his vambrace has a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. She’s out of place in the rough crowd, a few years younger than him maybe, pulling her helmet off to reveal a curly head of blonde hair, smiling and chattering at her closest companion. Bubbly. Not something you see a lot in places like this, although the energy bow strapped to her back says maybe she’s more used to them than she should be.
There’s something familiar about her. It nags at the back of Boba’s brain, trying to penetrate the slight buzz from the alcohol. He doesn’t turn his helmet even slightly, but uses the expanded view in his HUD to keep an eye on her.
The girl splits off from the mercenaries to park herself inconspicuously in a shadowy booth as they approach the bar. The bartender leans in to listen, then jerks a thumb in response to their inquiry, and they disappear into the back.
If he recalls, the bar’s owned by some small-time underworld broker. Whatever business the mercenaries have with him, it’s none of his. Boba takes another sip of his drink.
The girl materializes out of nowhere like a kriffing ghost. He has no idea how she snuck up on him, and he very resolutely does not jump, although maybe he flinches a little behind his helmet.
“Hello,” she announces brightly, giving him a little wave as she hops up on the stool. Her accent strikes again in his mind like the ringing of a distant bell. Her feet dangle, kicking back and forth playfully.
Boba grunts and refuses to turn his head toward the little weirdo, on principle. She should be scared of him, not friendly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers, kid?” he growls in his best imitation of his father.
The girl’s brow furrows in concentration. “You seem familiar. And you’re barely older than me!” she tacks on, with an eyeroll for good measure.
Curse his teenage lankiness, the way he still doesn’t quite fill out his father’s armor.
But if she recognizes something about him—does he actually know this girl?
Boba finally shifts to get a fuller look at her face. Brown eyes under a heavy brow. A strong, wide nose. Round chin. Light brown skin. He can’t remember every seeing her before, but something about her…
On his HUD, he pulls up the facial recognition software that he uses for tracking down bounties. It glitches, unable to connect to the holonet database. There’s something wrong with his helmet. Frowning, he pulls it off to examine the wiring.
The girl gasps.
“You’re a cadet!” she nearly shrieks, delight spilling out onto her face. “How did you get off Kamino? How did you get away from the Empire?”
This time Boba can’t hide that she’s caught him off guard. His helmet slips from his grasp, thunking awkwardly on the bar top. All of a sudden the familiar nature of her accent in his ears is less a bell, more like a thundering gong.
He hasn’t heard it as much since the war ended. Hasn’t had to see the endless marching repetitions of his father’s face, either, all dead or dispersed or disguised behind their helmets now. That voice only echoes back to him when it issues from his own throat, the face only reflected in mirrors.
His head is swimming. He hasn’t had enough to blame the alcohol.
“How— how do you—” he stammers, although already a part of him knows exactly how she’ll respond.
“I’m a clone, too!” the girl announces, radiating pure joy. Her chest puffs out with pride. “My name is Omega. You’re my brother!”
Boba’s never seen her before, he’s certain of that, now. Not this girl, specifically. With the exception of his minder, Taun We, Dad had always kept him away from those blasted Kaminoan experiments, and he has no doubt that’s what she is. Not a matching, perfectly enhanced specimen. Something else.
He clenches a fist and slams it against the bar. She doesn’t flinch, but she does frown.
“I am not a clone,” he snaps hotly. He shoves his helmet back over his head to hide his face. It’s easier to look at her like this, through the filter of the HUD. It still isn’t connecting to facial recognition. He stands up, ready to abandon his drink; he’ll head back to Slave I and tinker with his armor until he finds the problem.
The girl is confused. “But…of course you are. Do you not remember? Are you alone? You could, you could come with us, we—" She’s staring up at him plaintively, all sincere concern.
Boba hates this girl. Hates her the way he learned to hate his first friends, identical little boys he played with when his father was gone on hunts only for them to grow at twice his speed and leave him behind. Hates her the way he hated when the cadets who’d been smaller than him a year ago would call him little Boba once they started to tower over him. Hates her the way he hated seeing the back of the Firespray as it flew off into the stormy Kaminoan sky.
“My name,” he hisses, hand going to his blaster on instinct, “is Boba Fett. I am my father’s son. I am not like you.”
“Omega!” his father’s voice shouts. Boba looks up on instinct; it is so easy to forget, easy to keep looking for Jango every time. The mercenaries are back, helmets at their hips, blasters trained on him. They are his father, but not, not even in the way of most clones—defectives. The closest approximation is the one with the vibroblade, though the long hair and dark tattoo shading half his face set even him apart. The growl is the same, though, the exact same, when the clone orders, lowly, “Omega, step away from the bounty hunter.”
Omega blinks at the other clones, then back up at Boba. “But, Hunter,” she protests. “He’s— he’s just a cadet, he needs our help!”
Boba scoffs. Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he moves his hands away from his holster and holds them out at his sides. The beskar would protect him if he took a hit, but half the bar is staring at the confrontation unfolding before their eyes, and he doesn’t feel like receiving the attention of a firefight right now. He wants to take his ship into an asteroid field and blast space rock into tiny bits and scream until he feels better.
“I don’t need anything from clones,” he replies disdainfully.
The girl looks at him like he slapped her. “But—”
Boba turns and walks away. He tries to imitate the slow, confident hunter’s stride he’d seen from his father, not the petulant stomping that Aurra always called sulky. He isn’t sure if he’s successful.
In any case, none of the clones follow. He goes back to Slave I and tries to forget he ever saw her.
New chapter in Look to the horizon and fly! Mind you, this is a canon divergent version of TBB.
masterlist post (fanfic summary, info etc)
AO3 link
Small tidbit below:
"Teth of all places… I still can't believe it," Wrecker exclaimed in disbelief, as the Marauder flew over the jungles of Teth. "Haven't the Republic been here before?"
"Several times, all involving Jedi," Tech happily confirmed, as he prepared the ship for landing outside the old stone building he had brought them to. It had been built into a massive pillar of rock, making it difficult to reach it, unless you could fly or had climbing tools.
Ash peered out the windshield, noting how high up they were. "What is this place?"
"This is one of many monasteries that the B'omarr Order built," Tech continued.
"Right, and they are?"
"Try and not crash the ship while you explain, Tech," Hunter smirked, as he retreated further back in the ship along with Echo and Wrecker. Tech had glared at him at his comment but his need to answer Ash's question took precedence.
"The B'omarr believed that to reach true enlightenment, they needed to isolate themselves from the physical world," Tech continued towards Ash. "No personal comforts, no emotions. Only the mind mattered. And once they did reach enlightenment, their brains were separated from their bodies and put into jars, to be cared for and revered by the other monks."
Ash made a face. "To do what exactly? Stare into a wall?"
"Well… no. They had no eyes after all. With no distractions from the physical world, they could focus on pondering the universe itself." He set the ship down, before standing up from his seat. "They were a rather elusive order. These days their buildings are used by smugglers, or the occasional Jedi dispute. Though I fear we will not see anything of the latter again."
He held out his hand towards her, before he could think twice, helping her up on her feet as she pondered the information she'd been given.
"I'd like to see a cardul join that Order," she admitted, before shaking her head amusedly.
👉🏻👈🏻 For the bad thing happened bingo...could it be Hunter with the prompt infected wound 🥺 please??
Hello my wonderful anon! I bring you this offering of Cadet Batch Hunter and Tech. I hope you like them ^_^ If you haven't encountered them before, my Cadet Batch can be found in my fic Pieces Of The People We Love. You don't need to read it for this fic to make sense - all you need to know is that Crosshair is the eldest, followed by Tech, and Hunter is the youngest! <3
Infected Wound
@badthingshappenbingo prompt
Fandom: The Bad Batch
Characters: Tech, Hunter, Crosshair
Rating: T (injury mention)
Word Count: ~1425
Tech’s awareness pulled to the chime of his com, the pitch of the beep letting him know it was one of his brothers.
Hunter: [tech can u help me]
A concerned wrinkle creased his brows as he studied the message. He was always alert for any call from his batch-mates; even deeply engrossed in his studies as he was; the frequency of the com tone was enough to cut through his concentration with laser-sharp precision and pull his attention immediately to their needs.
It wasn’t like Hunter to message him like this.
Hunter was supposed to be on downtime.
Thumbs flying across the device, he typed back: [Where are you?]
Hunter: [in freshr]
An even deeper mystery. Tech glanced about their shared bunk room; it was otherwise empty, meaning Wrecker and Crosshair must still be at their respective training exercises. Hunter was liable to slink so silently about the place that it was no surprise he hadn’t noticed that he had entered the fresher and not returned. Finding the door unlocked, the palmed the entry open and stepped inside.
Hunter was in his cadet reds, barefoot, with one hand clamped to the side of his face. A guilty flush tinged his cheeks beneath his tan as he hunched sheepishly under Tech’s appraising look.
“What is it you require?” asked Tech, direct and to the point.
Wincing, Hunter slowly peeled his hand away from his face and dropped it to his side. It was far from idle – his fingers twitched nervously as though aching for a knife, and his other arm was wrapped protectively across his body, the fabric fisted in his hand.
When his batchmate appeared nonplussed, Hunter grit the words out past clenched teeth.
“C’n you help me get this thing out?”
Never talkative, Hunter’s words were little more than a growl. But he angled his head with a sharp jerk, and the unruly line of his untamed hair swung aside to reveal the angry redness of his swollen ear-lobe.
Taking a step forwards, Tech leaned in to inspect his younger brother. At the centre of the nexus of inflammation was a single, seemingly makeshift, stud earring.
“When did you pierce your ear?” he asked with mild surprise. It wasn’t unheard of for things to escape his notice, but he rather thought he should have spotted this. That being said, the way that Hunter hunched over and let his long hair hide his moody expressions hardly lent itself to showing off this new personal adornment.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Hunter did not reply. His sullen expression pulled to a pout, eyes dark and bruised and cautious as he watched Tech for his reaction.
With perhaps less sympathy than he should have felt, Tech pulled gently at the younger cadet’s ear, twisting it to check the reverse as well. “This looks infected.”
“It fuckin’ itches, Tech.”
At the bite of Hunter’s voice, Tech hid a smile. “I can imagine,” he said drily, straightening. “You are not the most dedicated at washing behind your ears at the best of times. Did you research the proper aftercare procedures for such a modification before commencing with it?”
Hunter’s silence was answer enough, and once again Tech had to swallow his faint amusement.
“And you have been hiding this behind grimy hair, all whilst your helmet rubs against it during training sessions?”
“Are you gonna help me or not?” Hunter’s rusty voice carried a bite of steel, and perhaps beneath that, a fracture of concern.
“Is there a reason you have not attempted to remove it yourself?”
“Yeah,” growled Hunter, “It hurts. And the back is too fucking tight.”
Taking pity on his brother’s plight, Tech allowed his smile to creep through.
“Very well. Let me fetch the med-kit.”
Once he was scrubbed and disinfected, wearing sterile gloves, Tech inspected the stud earring more closely.
“What is this made of?” he mused rhetorically, not expecting an answer. No wonder the back was so tight that Hunter couldn’t loosen it himself. It was not a piercing like the older clone troopers sometimes wore – it looked bodged together, and he was becoming increasingly certain that the parts were industrial in origin.
“Don’t know,” muttered Hunter sullenly, from his new perch atop the fresher counter. He did a good job of swallowing his winces as Tech prodded at the tender inflammation of his earlobe, his face creased in a perpetual scowl. “Get on with it.”
“Who did you even go to, to get a piercing?” he asked, then in the same breath answered his own question, in unison with Hunter.
“Crosshair.”
“-rosshair.”
Rolling his eyes, Tech gripped the makeshift stud firmly. “Of course you let Crosshair modify you,” he sighed, directionless exasperation in his tone. “Did he at least sterilise…” And, cutting himself off once again, “Of course he didn’t.”
Hunter seemed to shrink a little at that. As though Tech’s ire reflected off the mirror-shield that was their eldest brother and hit the youngest with even greater force.
Tempering his expression to something sympathetic, Tech initiated a countdown.
“Three… two…”
“OW! Fucking kriff Sith’s Hells, Tech–”
“There you go,” soothed Tech in an almost sing-song tone. He presented the offending metal nail to Hunter, the stem crusted with dried blood in places, glazed with fresh in others. “Now to drain the wound.”
Quick as thought Hunter slithered from the counter, ducking under Tech’s outstretched arm to back against the far wall.
“It’s fine. You can go now.”
Fixing his best stern-brother face in place, Tech frowned at him. “Nonsense. The wound needs thoroughly cleaning whilst it has been re-opened. Anything less risks the infection becoming trapped inside, where it cannot heal.”
“Tech,” whined Hunter, a desperate note to his voice. His hand came up to clamp his ear once more, hiding the trickle of blood which oozed lazily down the back of his lobe to pool behind his jaw.
“Sit,” ordered Tech firmly, and to his vague surprise Hunter did so, dropping to a miserable cross-legged bundle on the floor. Crouching before him, he reached out with tender hands.
“I shall be as gentle as I can,” he promised, as he started to clean the wound.
*
“Crosshair.”
Still only half-way across the threshold, the silver-haired cadet sniper froze at the sound of his brother’s stern voice.
“What?” he snapped irritably, letting his rifle slide from his shoulder to rest at his side.
Tech pushed his goggles further up the bridge of his nose, fixing his brother with a withering stare.
“You are not to modify Hunter in the future without my express permission. Do you understand?”
For a moment Crosshair returned his stare blankly, clearly nonplussed. Then, “Is this about the piercing?”
Only Tech could maintain such a stern, tight-lipped silence that Crosshair felt compelled to continue.
“It was fine. I knew what I was doing. If he’s been whining about it it’s because–”
“Because the infection could have cost him his ear and his hearing,” interrupted Tech flatly.
There was no truth in his statement, but he was well-versed in manipulating his brother. Crosshair quietened, and paled.
“As it is, Hunter will heal with minimal scarring,” Tech continued, trying to pretend he wasn’t enjoying setting their acerbic eldest on the back foot for once. “Should you decide to mutilate your younger siblings again, or indeed yourself, please kindly consult me first. I shall make sure that such undertakings are carried out in a sanitary environment, with minimal risk of infection.”
It was rare that Crosshair was stunned to silence. His lack of an acid comeback was testament to how Tech had rattled him.
“Now if you don’t mind,” Tech finished, blithely turning away with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Hunter and I are going to watch a holo together. Kindly keep your noise to a minimum.”
Leaving their eldest stricken by the unexpected attack, Tech turned to crawl into Hunter’s bunk with him. It was rarer even than silencing Crosshair, for Hunter to welcome one of them into his space, and as he settled himself at the back of the bunk his youngest batchmate tucked into his side, resting his uninjured ear on Tech’s shoulder.
Hunter didn’t say thank-you. This moment of closeness spoke more than a thousand words ever could.
Starting the holo, and propping the datapad up at their feet, Tech cautiously tilted his head until his own cheek rested on Hunter’s unruly curls.
Neither of them were prone to unnecessary conversation.
Perhaps, in quiet moments like this, they found all the connection they needed.
Want to check out the other Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts? Find them Here and make a request! :)
For the bad things happen bingo can I request Echo and Tech with Haunted Spaces? I just feel like it would be fun to see Tech try to be scientific about it and Echo trying to agree but man he's seen some things and knows the force works in mysterious ways but maybe not this much lol
Thank you :3 💕 💕💕
Hello there! This accidentally ended up with more Echo and less Tech so I'm sorry but I hope you like it anyway :) Not proofread <3
Haunted Spaces
@badthingshappenbingo prompt
Fandom: The Bad Batch
Characters: Echo, Tech
Rating: G
Word Count: 1575
The corpse of the spaceship groaned, vast metal skeleton decaying around them, it’s voice a mournful wail which protested the footfalls of the living intruding upon its abandoned halls. Canted to the side as it was, traversing the ship was a combination of scrambling and balance, each doorway or partition a hurdle to vault over. Loose debris littered the valley where wall and floor met.
Echo deliberately tuned out how much of said debris was intimately, heart-achingly familiar. Scraps of grey fabric uniform. Scarred white armour, flashes of flaking colour visible where their torchlight bounced around.
Losing his fight against the planet’s insistent gravity would mean sliding down the sloped floor into that graveyard crevasse, and he had no wish to disturb his brothers’ rest. It was an ignoble enough fate already, to lie dishonoured on a nameless, uninhabited planet. He had no wish to dislodge the forgotten bones which layered a carpet of loss within the downed ship.
At least they were deep enough within the hulking carcass that the planet’s inhospitable elements could no longer reach them through the devastating rends in the hull. Nonetheless, the atmosphere failed to register as breathable, and Echo was glad for their environmentally sealed armour.
“If the blueprints are correct,” crackled Tech’s voice over the com – the ‘and why wouldn’t they be’ being left unspoken – “then we are almost at our destination.”
They had left Hunter and Wrecker – with Omega in their care – to circle in the Marauder. The exterior of the downed ship hardly represented a stable landing surface, and they were none too certain about the state of the surrounding terrain either. Tech and Echo had descended on winch cables to plumb the innards of the ship in search of potential spare fuel cells for their own battered craft.
Lowering through the gashed hull to the echoing warren within, Echo was eminently conscious of the fact that they were intruders upon the slumbering stillness of the wreck. As though the ship wasn’t truly dead. As though the lost crew within its halls were simply awaiting new orders.
Tapping his scomp against his cerebral implant, Echo tuned into the same map that Tech was following on his datapad. The next chamber they reached should house the secondary redundant power cells – and they simply had to hope that they hadn’t been burned up in the conflagration that consumed the ship as it desperately fought the inexorable descent to the planet’s surface.
Try not to think of how many died in the inferno of uncontrolled re-entry to the atmosphere.
How many were ripped from the depressurising hull into the planet’s churning, toxic atmosphere.
Whether they knew they were doomed as the ship careened out of control.
The bulkhead at the end of the corridor was partially open, a narrow strip of darkness giving hint of the space beyond. Tech eased his slender form into the diagonal opening, bracing his back and his legs before grunting with strain as he pushed it open as far as he could manage, making enough space for Echo to slip through more easily before dropping after him into the cavernous store-hold.
Despite himself Echo held his breath, hesitant to intrude upon this space. This ship held the ghosts of fallen vode. Taking from them felt somehow… wrong.
A jagged shaft of illumination slanted across the space before them, perfectly still in the undisturbed air. Tech angled a powerful beam up to reveal a tooth-edged fissure that ruptured through many layers of metal to reach this deep, inner part of the ship.
“That will certainly make it easier to extract the power cells,” he commented drily. “We should be able to winch the cells directly onto the Marauder.”
A cloud of dust motes kicked up, glistening softly as Tech ventured through the light beam to the hollow dark beyond. Echo blinked to the present, corralling his thoughts with a sharp shake of his head.
Not like him to get sentimental during a mission. Placing his feet carefully on the sloping floor, he followed doggedly after the engineer.
“The reserve cells appear to be intact and still holding charge,” Tech said, his tone clipped and business-like. Tilting his head up, craning to identify their extraction route, “Come in, Hunter,” he said into his com. “We have found the power cells. Prepare for extraction.”
Leaving Tech to negotiate with his brother, Echo stepped past Tech, tracing gauntleted fingertips over the lowest cell. With the canted floor placing them beneath the rack, it sat at his chest height.
“Gonna be a heavy load to haul.”
Tech shrugged, the languid motion communicating what words did not need to. They would make the trip either way.
First, they had to free their prize.
Echo braced his weight under the lowest power cell as best he could. The cylinder should twist to unlock, the awkward angle an irritation rather than a barrier.
Left hand on the release bar, right elbow anchored to the edge, he heaved.
Nothing. No movement – not even a shudder.
“Tech.”
Moving to one side to give his squad-mate access, Echo watched as Tech had similarly little fortune.
“This type of reserve power supply is rarely held in place by a locking mechanism,” frowned Tech, a small crease furrowing his brows behind his helmet’s translucent visor. “The stiffness is likely caused by disuse. A suitable lever will allow us to multiply the force applied and free the cell from its housing.”
His own bucket hid his eye-roll as Echo looked back down the disarrayed chamber to the tangled churn of waste in the deep vee that had once been the edge of the room. There would be tools in there, equipment they could use – anything that hadn’t been nailed down sliding to a slanted grave as the ship broke up in atmosphere.
Bodies, too, anyone who hadn’t evacuated quickly enough.
“Any kind of lever?” he asked, rather than objecting.
“One would assume there had been suitable tools in this storage bay to undertake such a task.”
When Tech made no immediate move, Echo squared his shoulders and carefully, cautiously, approached the melee of detritus that marked the ship’s downfall.
“Any kind of lever,” he muttered to himself with finality, surveying the field of tumbled objects and steeling himself with a breath.
Step forward. That was all he needed to do. Step forwards.
He nudged one toe ahead, testing his weight as he put his foot down.
A resounding CLANG sent a bolt of adrenaline shooting straight up his spine, both him and Tech spinning with weapons drawn to track the source of the sound.
Synthetic heart thudding a frantic tattoo, Echo forced his jumpiness to the bottom of his gut as the pealing reverberation died away. His careful footstep hadn’t caused that, surely.
Across from him, Tech was wide-eyed behind his visor. His torch beam quivered just a little as the circle of illumination spotlighted – a large wrench.
The kind of tool which would be perfect for freezing the stuck power cells.
Slowly Tech looked up, their eyes meeting behind emotionless visors.
“Where did that come from?” asked Echo, voice gruff and flat as he forced the words past the knot of emotion that constricted his chest.
Tech looked up, torch swinging across the vast racks above.
“The vibrations of our presence must have disturbed a precariously balanced tool,” he stated, though curiosity curled through his tone. “A fortunate coincidence. Nothing more.”
“A coincidence,” the ARC echoed on an exhale, almost to himself. He looked to the vaulted darkness; to the sea of forgotten memory at his feet; back to the wrench.
He was here. And they weren’t.
If it were him, he would want his brothers to have what they needed.
Clones weren’t brought up with any spiritual beliefs, not the way the free peoples of the galaxy were. They were soldiers. Bred for war, to serve their purpose and die doing so.
Except…
Except once they left Kamino, most of them spent enough time in the presence of Jedi to believe in something more.
Fives had asked once, if there was a place in the Force for Clones once they died.
They hadn’t got a straight answer, but Echo had never dismissed the idea that his brothers were still out there somewhere. Connected. Part of something larger than themselves, and not in the fatalistic way that their violent lives of service had been sold to them as impressionable cadets.
It made the hollow space of their loss ache a little more distantly to think like that.
His whole body tingled with something like anticipation as he made his way back to Tech. Holstered his blaster, and bent cautiously to pick up the wrench.
The steady weight of it was comforting.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but even through his gauntlet it felt warm in his palm.
If he turned his head, he felt sure the corner of his periphery would flicker with the almost-movement of brothers laughing and joshing as they went about their duties.
“[Tech. Echo. We’re in position.]”
Hunter’s voice crackling over the com jolted him back to the now. Even then, a whisper of something still wrapped around him, teasing along his skin beneath his armour.
“Here,” he muttered, stepping into position and bracing the wrench against the first power cell.
Imagined ghostly hands closing over his to help with the task.
Hoped that somewhere in the Force, his brothers were with him.
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Specific content warnings for this chapter: misogyny, references to sex work, canon-typical violence
Chapter Four: All Ashore
Myria breathed in the salty dawn air as the crew of the Marauder bustled around her, a hive of activity. She should head back below deck, clean up the remnants of their earlier-than-usual breakfast. Or double check her list. Or make sure she had all her meager possessions stuffed into her pack, just in case Captain Fett decided to make good on his threats and leave her behind when they went ashore. Anything, really, besides standing here idle, where the Captain might see her and find her work ethic lacking.
Still, she remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her.
Pantora.
It was the only place she’d ever seen besides Koboh, and she found her insides squirming with a mix of excitement and nervousness. As the ship slowly made its way into the chaotic bay, navigating expertly between catamarans, freighters, and Navy ships alike toward an open dock, her attention boomeranged from the tall buildings topped by onion-shaped domes to the port authority in their striking red uniforms. She realized for the first time that her home and even its intimidating Imperial fort were little more than quaint in comparison.
She scanned the crowded docks anxiously, counting Imperial regalia; fewer soldiers here than in Koboh, but still enough to be concerning. It seemed Pantora’s own security forces held a measure of autonomy that Koboh had never regained after the Separatists invaded and the Republic had first stationed a permanent regiment there, but it was still under Imperial jurisdiction. She wasn’t safe here.
“Great, isn’t it?” came a cheerful voice as a fluffy blonde head bobbed up beside her. “Pantora is one of the first places my brothers brought me at the end of the war!”
Myria startled away from Omega, glancing around furtively to see if the Captain was watching. Luckily, Hunter was barking orders up at Crosshair in the crow’s nest, who was keeping him busy by making snide comments back.
She furrowed her brow and gave into curiosity, careful not to step too close to the young girl. “I thought your brothers deserted and were sent…away,” she replied as tactfully as she could manage.
Omega’s face fell a little at that, and Myria’s heart squeezed in guilt. But she couldn’t deny she had been wondering how the Fett brothers had ended up smugglers with a younger sister in tow.
“They deserted because of me. At least, at first,” Omega responded quietly. Her earlier enthusiasm had given way to pensiveness as she continued gazing at the approaching skyline. “Our mother died, and there was no one else to take care of me. They couldn’t leave me behind, but the new Empire extended their enlistment indefinitely. And once we saw what the Empire was doing…well, none of them wanted to go back.” She shuddered, and sighed. “Not that they had a choice later, once they ended up on Narkina-5.”
Myria had heard of Narkina-5, and not just when the Imperial officer had evoked it during her first day on the ship. The island held the most notorious jail in the Empire, reserved for anyone whose crimes were deemed to be just short of a hanging. Moldy food, rats, back-breaking labor, cruel guards—a few months there might as well be a death sentence.
And the Captain had survived a full year there.
Myria didn’t want to face the wrath of a man like that. Nodding sheepishly back at Omega, she muttered an excuse about work still to be done and made her way back to the galley.
She only emerged once the forward movement of the ship had ceased, indicating the Marauder had finally settled at the dock. She sidled up surreptitiously to Echo’s side, her list for the market clutched firmly in a clammy fist, and nervously adjusted her hat atop her head so that it dipped lower over her face. Omega was practically bouncing with excitement as they all followed her down the gangplank to where Hunter was communicating with the dockmaster in a low voice; as they approached the Captain slipped a handful of coins into the man’s outstretched hand.
“All set,” he grunted, striding off to lead his crew down the crowded dock.
Wrecker swung Omega up onto his shoulders as they all followed, Myria walking quickly to keep up. The activity around the docks, though busier than she was used to, was at least a familiar sight: fish and cargo, sailors and merchants, all made way for the rough group of men and their hangers-on. Just a few turns into the city found them entering a bustling marketplace full of stalls carrying foodstuffs, everyday supplies, fabric, and even a few luxury goods. Shopkeepers filled the air with shouts as they hawked their wares to passersby, boasting the freshness of their fruits or quality of their bargains. Almost immediately the Fetts began to disperse; Wrecker and Omega were distracted by a puppet show, Tech by a stall full of gently used nautical instruments. Crosshair leaned up against a wall nearby and lit his pipe, piercing eyes watching over the crowd, tracking the movements of his siblings. Myria continued to shadow Echo uncertainly, unnerved by Hunter hovering just at her back.
“Alright, lemme see your list, Marvin,” Echo requested. He gripped it in his prosthetic and held it beside his own notes to compare. He raised an eyebrow. “Awful lot of fruits and vegetables on here. Those don’t last long at sea.”
“I know, sir. We’ll use what we can fresh the first few days, and I’ll preserve the rest,” Myria replied.
“A good plan,” Echo conceded approvingly. “Still, I’m not sure we’ll be able to get everything. Prices can be a bit high here.”
He approached a stall with buckets full of colorful beans and dried corn, the seller a middle-aged man with mud caked along the hems of his trousers. The man looked them over shrewdly, taking in their rough appearances without even a raised eyebrow—used to all sorts here, then.
When Echo inquired, Myria’s mouth fell open at the cost the seller quoted—just for a few assorted pounds, hardly enough to replenish their stocks for the next few weeks!
But that was the manner of bargaining, and so she waited patiently for Echo’s counteroffer. He went lower but not low enough, in Myria’s opinion, especially since she saw more than a few pebbles that the seller had neglected to pick out of his stock, and then the man countered again, still far too high, and then Echo—agreed to it!
“No!” she barked before she could help it, preventing Echo before he could hand over the coinage. She ignored the incredulous looks all three men shot her, taking on her sternest tone, reserved only for the most incorrigible of marketplace scammers. “You know as well as I do that should pay for twice the amount you’re offering, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she scolded the seller.
“Marvin,” came Hunter’s voice, low, dangerous, but she only brushed him aside.
Myria scoffed fearlessly, incensed, scooping up a handful. “Just look at these. Nearly a quarter of them are pebbles and weevils, and—smell that? Musty. They haven’t even been stored properly. It’s highway robbery. In fact—” her voice became distinctly, exaggeratedly louder, attracting attention. “I bet the whole lot’s spoiled. We oughtn’t buy anything here at all.”
She made to turn on her heel, allowing herself a small smirk of satisfaction when she heard the inevitable, “Wait!”
The man was scowling. Myria pursed her lips back at him and crossed her arms. Finally, he gestured to a few other containers set off to the side of the stall.
“Are these more to your liking?”
She craned herself around Echo to see, ignoring his flabbergasted expression. Her inspection was careful, even excessively close. She looked, narrow-eyed, up at the hopeful seller.
“Six pounds of assorted beans. Three pounds of corn. Same price,” she offered.
The man leaned in. “Five credits more and you have a deal.”
Myria nodded. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she concluded obsequiously as he began scooping out their purchase into burlap.
Echo finally managed to close his mouth and grinned, clapping her on the back. “Alright. Maybe we can get your whole list,” he conceded. Hunter just grunted, arms crossed, and gestured Wrecker over, who hauled the sacks effortlessly over his shoulder.
The Fetts were now the ones trailing Myria around the market as she navigated the stalls expertly, pleased to finally be back in her element. She got an excellent deal on breadnuts, the flesh too ripe to be eaten but the seeds a promising protein for days when the fishing was scarce; pounds of cassava, still fresh enough to be made into cakes or flour and stored for later in the voyage; savory plantains; fresh soursops and greens to be used up quickly before the sea air could get to them; even several new dried spices and blocks of panela for flavor and sweetness. She would have her work cut out for her, processing several of the ingredients for the next few days, but it meant they could buy things cheaper and use everything, with as little waste as possible.
Echo had increasingly become comfortable deferring to her expertise, at first questioning whether her list was really complete—no, they didn’t need to buy jams, she’d used the last of the fresh fruit to replenish their stock rather than letting it go to waste; they absolutely did not need their usual shelf-stable, dried out, disappointingly flavorless ship’s biscuit, as a matter of professional pride they wouldn’t have to eat any of that until they dropped her off on Ord Mantell—but soon agreeing to let her take the lead.
Finally, with midday approaching, they had acquired everything on her list, and even had a few coins left over. Even the Captain looked satisfied, nodding to Myria with approval.
“Alright, lads. We’ll load up and…” Hunter trailed off and scowled as he turned and caught the gazes of Wrecker and Omega, eyes wide and shining with expectation.
“Please, Hunter?” Omega added an extra whine to her voice that Myria instantly recognized from when her young helper, Lindi, wanted to beg off for the afternoon on festival days.
The Captain softened so rapidly in the face of his younger siblings’ pleas that Myria almost didn’t recognize him. The gentle smile and low chuckle he offered were in dramatic contrast to his intimidating growls of the night before. Something flipped confusingly in her stomach, and Myria tried to remember if she’d eaten anything that morning.
“Alright,” he conceded. “The rest of us will meet you in the usual spot afterwards.”
Omega pumped her fist in the air triumphantly and squeezed Hunter around the waist before grasping Myria by the hand. “Come on, Marvin, you’re gonna love this!” Myria didn’t have time to protest, Omega dragging her along after them even as she felt the Captain’s glare return to shoot daggers at her back.
“Maybe the kid can replace you as quartermaster, too, Echo,” she heard Crosshair drawling snidely as they left, burdened with several of the sacks Wrecker had promptly shoved into his arms.
Echo rolled his eyes and gave Crosshair a playful shove. “Just make yourself useful and help us get all this back to the ship.”
Wrecker and Omega, it turned out, had made it a habit of seeking out new, exotic snacks in every port they came to. In Pantora their favorite was a flaky, triangular pastry stuffed with spiced lamb and golden raisins. Myria’s mouth watered at the savory and sweet combination, though she spent perhaps too long examining the dough between nibbles. Wrecker, it seemed, swallowed his whole, hardly needing to chew, and Omega laughingly protected the paper package of treats from his teasing fingers as they strolled leisurely back toward the port.
“The usual spot” turned out to be a rather rough-and-tumble tavern, crowded with sailors having late lunches or drinking ale. The Fetts had managed to secure a table right in the middle of things. Crosshair plucked the pastry Omega had saved him from her taunting grasp while Echo handed Wrecker his own mug of beer, their arrival greeted with little other fanfare. Myria let the chatter wash over her, chest aching with the reminder of the familiar, dull roar that greeted her with each swing of the kitchen door at Old Doma’s.
The sudden bout of homesickness had struck her so thoroughly that she almost thought she was imagining it when she heard the name of her employer from the next table over. But it soon became clear from the loud, boastful voices that the sailors—fishermen, from the smell of them—were engaging in one of the favorite pastimes of their profession: gossip.
Gossip about her.
The man who was speaking waved a broadsheet in one fist, as if to illustrate the subject at hand to his companions. “They’re calling her the Brothel Butcheress. I heard that he was her regular, but then he chose a new, younger girl and she killed him out of jealousy,” he commented salaciously.
“That’d about do it,” another man at the table replied. “Makes sense, seeing as I heard she stabbed him a dozen times.”
“A dozen?” a third man piped up. “I heard two dozen!”
“I heard she did it while he was asleep in bed after she seduced him.”
The whole table tittered in a way that wouldn’t have been out of place among the maids at the market in Koboh, the enjoyment of rumor transcending any regard for gender or profession.
“Well, they’ll be looking to hang her for sure,” the first man asserted, tossing the broadsheet back on the table carelessly. “Can you believe this? All the Imp naval officers are too scared to go to any of the brothels! Doesn’t matter what port, they’re afraid she may have gotten on a ship and she’s working somewhere else…just waiting to take her revenge on another of them.”
He concluded the subject with the ominous whisper of a ghost story. It was apt, but not in any way he could have imagined: the woman in question, seated at the table beside him, had gone white as the revenant dead. The Fetts had quieted their own conversation to listen in, even Tech looking up from his ever-present journal, and now Crosshair was snatching the broadsheet and holding it up to show his brothers, and any moment now Myria would be discovered.
Crosshair smirked. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a girl like that working at Old Doma’s.”
Myria let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. At the top of the broadsheet, bold, capital letters announced her name and declared her wanted for murder—but the face peering out below was not hers. She had to suppress a hysterical giggle. The proportions and shapes of each feature were comically wrong: an overly small mouth; a round nose in contrast to her angular one; gaunt cheekbones; enormous ears; and a mole the size of a coin on one cheek.
It was clear now that none of the Imperials had gotten a clear look, and her friends at Old Doma’s would never endanger her, even if they had no idea why she’d done it. Anything the Imperials couldn’t already confirm, they’d described with a deliberate waywardness. And among all the other exaggerated or plain erroneous information supplied by the rumor mill, no one even seemed to realize she was the cook!
It wasn’t a huge comfort when paired with the size of the bounty the Empire seemed to be offering, but it was something. Myria could continue to escape notice, for now.
Apparently the ruse was enough for her to get away with even under the Captain’s strong, suspicious nose. Hunter snorted and rolled his eyes at the broadsheet before standing, his attention caught by a recently arrived patron who gestured to an empty table in one corner.
“Who’s that?” Omega wondered as her brother drained his ale and strode over to speak with the man.
Echo scowled. “One of Cid’s contacts. Probably about to blow us off course,” he muttered cryptically.
Sure enough, Hunter returned in short order to report on a change of plans. “We’re taking a detour, lads,” he announced. “C’mon—I don’t wanna have to repeat the details.”
The brothers followed dutifully, Omega waving them off. “I’ll keep Marvin company!” she offered.
Myria tried not to cringe at the Captain’s scowl, but at least he left them without further complaint. She wondered how long this “detour” would take; although part of her wanted to cling to the routine she had managed to establish, another part knew that every extra day with the Fetts increased her risk of discovery. The sooner they arrived at Ord Mantell, the better for her.
She was so distracted contemplating this that she missed the accompanying table’s return to the subject of the Brothel Butcheress. Specifically, their commentary on the inaccurate likeness that had been drawn up of her.
“Hard to believe that one had any customers at all,” one of the men crowed.
Another, cheeks ruddy with drink, chortled. “It’s not her face that draws ‘em in, eh, lads?”
“Aye, more important assets in a woman, ain’t there?” a third agreed.
“Excuse me!” a young voice interrupted, finally drawing Myria’s attention. Omega had stood, eyes flashing, hands braced against the wooden tabletop. “It’s incredibly rude, to speak of a stranger that way!”
The men fell silent, all good humor vacated as they sneered back her. Myria, eyes wide, tugged at Omega’s sleeve. “Uh…Omega…” she whispered.
One of the fishermen stood, seeming far taller and more muscular than when he’d been seated. He towered over them. “I ain’t see how what I say’s any of your business, girly,” he growled.
Unintimidated, Omega scrunched her nose angrily back at him. “Coulda fooled me. Or maybe you’re always this much of a loudmouth!”
The man, clenching his fist at his side, made to take a step toward her, but Myria forced her way between them, her scant height over Omega allowing her to block the young girl from sight.
“It’s—she didn’t mean anything by it, sir, we’ll be going now,” she began to stammer, but the man continued advancing, shoving her aside like she was nothing so that she stumbled into the edge of the table, bearing down on Omega—
A long, familiar knife embedded itself in a support beam an inch away from the man’s face, and he flinched back. The sound reverberated through the tavern, which had gone suddenly silent.
“Do we have some sort of a problem here?” Hunter’s voice was low, but no less dangerous. He’d still been halfway across the room when he threw the knife, but now he was stalking slowly toward them, bootsteps echoing against the wooden floor with each careful stride.
The man’s assessing gaze took in the Captain, then the four brothers rising from their seats behind him. It landed last on Wrecker, who cracked his knuckles and folded his arms.
“No problem,” the fisherman conceded scornfully, the words falling bitterly from his tongue. Myria sighed in relief as the tension around the tavern slowly began to let up. Hunter nodded and gestured to Omega and Myria to follow him as he turned away.
“Just remind the little bitch to know her place,” the man muttered at the Captain’s back.
Hunter paused. His shoulders tensed. He let out a slow huff from his nostrils.
Then he wheeled around and punched the man square in the jaw.
“Oh, not again,” Echo groaned bitterly. The rest of the man’s friends—not just the group at the table, but several other acquaintances apparently dispersed throughout the tavern—took that as their cue, rushing Hunter and the other Fetts as they stepped into the fray. Myria could hardly track the chaos as it erupted around her. Omega, not one to be left out, had leapt on the shoulders of one of the men advancing toward Hunter and was trying to drag him down to the floor. The man backed toward a wall, trying to smash the girl hard enough to force her to lose her grip; Myria was barely able to grab Omega by the wrist and haul her out of the way quickly enough to prevent it, leaving the man unbalanced and toppling over into a nearby set of chairs. She dragged the girl under a nearby table.
“Let me go, I’ve gotta help!” she protested, crawling back out immediately.
Myria took barely a moment to moan in frustration and hold her head in her hands before following her. She emerged back into the chaos just in time to catch a glimpse of a small blonde head tackling a full-grown man to the floor.
The other Fetts seemed to be doing perfectly fine. Tech and Crosshair, back-to-back, bickered in between throwing elbows, trading off opponents every so often as if in a familiar dance. Echo fought almost begrudgingly, shouting over his shoulder at Wrecker that this was the third tavern brawl this month. Wrecker, cackling uproariously, was ignoring him as he battled with no fewer than four men at the same time.
Omega, still scrambling around on the floor, was being rapidly approached by another rough-looking sailor. Something gleamed sharply in his hand, and Myria threw herself at him without another thought.
The man was taken by surprise enough that he dropped the knife he’d been holding, but Myria didn’t have the weight or experience to keep him down. He acquired the upper hand quickly, pinning her against the floor and drawing a fist back, aimed squarely at her face.
She screwed her eyes shut in anticipation of the hit, only to feel the man dragged off her a with a loud oof before he could land the strike.
“Alright there, Marvin?” Hunter asked. Myria, dazed, could only stare up at him where he hovered over her, holding out a hand. The serious, stoic Captain had vanished under a reckless, almost charming grin, his blood evidently up from a good fight. Around them the Tavern had quieted, the shouts and sounds of breaking glass and furniture replaced only with groans and panting.
Myria took his hand and let him haul her to her feet. Her stomach flipped at the feel of the warm, rough callouses against her palm and she dropped it as quickly as she could.
Hunter whistled loudly, catching his siblings’ attention. “Oy! We’ve overstayed our welcome. Hop to!”
The journey back to the ship was a furtive rush, though that didn’t stop Wrecker from proudly recounting his favorite moments of the fight the whole way back or Echo scolding him back. Myria knew as well as any denizen of a port city that a tavern brawl in a rough area was mostly beneath the notice of the authorities, but she, like the Captain, didn’t seem too inclined to try their luck. As such, they were back on the Marauder, unfurling their sails and leaving Pantora behind them, in no time.
The afternoon flew by just as quickly with the amount of work Myria had ahead of her. She quickly busied herself with organizing their newly acquired food stores, processing ingredients, and preparing the evening meal. In fact, she was so tired from the day that she nearly dozed off after dinner, still sitting upright on a crate up on deck.
She stirred back to awareness at the sound of a clearing throat. Most of the crew had disappeared, leaving only Hunter across from her, leaning back casually against the mast. For a moment she only stared at him dumbly, confused, then jumped to her feet.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Captain, I’ll handle the washing up right away—”
“It’s fine, Marvin. Sit down.”
Myria gulped and sat. The Captain was twirling a knife expertly between his fingertips; she watched, mesmerized, certain at any moment that he’d drop it or cut himself. Finally, he let it still.
“You did good today, kid,” he acknowledged gruffly. “In the market. And I appreciate you looking out for Omega in the tavern.”
Myria worried her lip and shrugged. She hadn’t thought about it much; Omega was clearly tough, but she was just a kid, and Myria was an adult—even if Hunter didn’t know that. It felt like something of her responsibility to protect the younger girl, when she could.
The Captain cleared his throat again, a little awkward. He shot Myria a crooked smile, and she felt her chest flutter at it. “Anyway, I wanted to give you this, for next time. Just in case.” He held the knife out toward her by the blade, handle first. “I’ll, uh…teach you how to use it, if you like. For protection.”
Myria swallowed. She didn’t ever want to have to wield a knife in that way again, and yet she knew it was more likely than not that she’d have little choice in the matter, with the way her life had changed recently.
Hunter was still offering her that gentle half-smile, and he didn’t seem so gruff, his tattoo not quite so intimidating like this. Her face warmed as she thought of him giving her lessons, his calloused hand brushing against hers as he corrected her grip, and she knew that the sooner she got off this boat, the less she interacted with Captain Hunter Fett, the better.
She reached out and grasped the knife firmly anyway. It felt right under her palm.
Tag List: @lonewolflupe @quincyarcher42 @clonethirstingisreal
Could i pretty please have some more Echo x batch content with your choice of stalking, hysterical strength, or electric rage?
Hello beloved Vampirate, I hope you are well! I know you came straight here after werewolf batch so here's something that may or may not be that, and may be a little bit of System Upgrade, and is wholly Echo + The Batch with the prompt 'Stalking' :)
Stalking
@badthingshappenbingo prompt
Fandom: The Bad Batch
Characters: Echo, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair
Rating: G
Word Count: ~600
It was no more than an itch against the periphery of his awareness. Something that shivered at the base of his cerebral implant, tingling across the wiring there and humming in the space where hearing once was.
Echo rolled to stillness, bobbing on the balls of prosthetic feet as he assessed his next move. He couldn’t see his quarry. An ill-defined instinct he was still learning to trust told him to hesitate instead of proceed.
Chewing against the metallic tang that clung behind his back teeth, he rolled forwards, footfalls softened by an abundance of caution as he drew closer to the intersection ahead.
The proud blue-and-white of the 501st had been exchanged for sombre grey, ashen tones blending nondescript as Echo hugged close to the wall. Inside his whirring mind, consciousness and computer blended their song to process his environment in a wholly unique way.
Phantasms of memory teased at his frayed nerves, a translucent veil which smothered the world, muffled it momentarily. Five of them, disorganised but dedicated, fighting through these training grounds. Endlessly adaptable panels forming a shifting maze of cover and exposure, safety and threat.
With a sharp growl, Echo shook himself back to the present.
Still five of them. Defective but effective.
No hesitating. Fleet and sure, he launched into a run, feet drumming a swift cadence in counterpoint to the metronome of his synthetic heartbeat.
Rounded the corner. Launched into a tackle.
Was caught, forward momentum aborted only momentarily before his perspective shifted, gravity losing its fight to claim him as he was lifted by the giant who was supposed to be his target. Canted in a smooth arc overhead. Struggled for a fraction to make sense of the ground now looming with alarming alacrity as he was slammed down, Wrecker’s suplex as devastating as it was unexpected.
Wheezing breath out of startled lungs as he was slammed to the ground, Echo struggled to reclaim his feet, instinct guiding his movements even as his body protested the assault. He scrambled only a moment before a vast weight descended on him, pinning him remorselessly as he thumped the ground with his left fist, burying his helmet in bunched shoulders.
“Yield!”
The weight let up almost immediately, Wrecker rolling off him and to his feet in a single easy movement. Echo dragged himself to sitting, forearms braced across his knees as he caught his breath and looked up at the fierce, scowling bucket of the defective clone commando towering above him.
Wrecker pushed his bucket up to rest atop his head, revealing a jovial face painted in a grin.
“Got closer that time!” he boomed, words infused with enthusiasm as he reached down a hand to help Echo to his feet.
Clasping the giant’s gauntlet in his own, Echo let himself be levered up, reaching up to release his own helmet also.
“At this rate,” he groused, “I’m never going to be able to sneak up on Hunter.”
Wrecker’s guffaw was echoed by a quieter peal of chuckles sounding through his commlink – Tech’s amused hum and Crosshair’s sardonic huff.
“You misunderstand,” came Tech’s voice, carrying a lilt of amusement across the digital channel. “Nobody sneaks up on Hunter.”
The training program shut down, the wall panels that had formed the maze of corridors retracting smoothly back into the floor. They caught sight of Tech and Crosshair, the Batch Twins sauntering towards them across the emptying arena.
“We ‘sneak up’ on Hunter,” elaborated Crosshair drily, grinning round his toothpick, “by distracting him.”
Wrecker clasped a congratulatory hand to Echo’s shoulder, grinning so wide it threatened to split his cheeks.
“An’ you,” he announced proudly, “can join me on the bait team!”
Want to check out the other Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts? Find them Here and make a request! :)
