Which one of them would have the hardest time letting the kids grow up/ eventually leave (for college and/or settling down on their own for example)?
Well, that’s need-to-know.
Point being, Cross’buir struggles. A lot. And he of course has to do something about it.
Stalker sniper Dad, anyone?
It’s different with the other boys and their ad’ike.
Hunter’s daughters exude their father’s confidence. They’re natural-born leaders, and while their Papa’s parting sentiments are heart-wrenching, nobody is worried a bit about how any of Sergeant Hunter’s daughters will fare on their own. They’ve been raised right. They have everything they need.
Same with Wrecker’s girls. Bold citizenship and a personality to match. They’ll have no problem integrating into society with their amiable qualities and profoundly better interpersonal skills than that of their daddy’s. They’re a perpetually dynamic duo, and they’ll always have each other.
Tech’s child—the mini genius—is the epitome of independent, a novelty cultivated by the likes of an equally independent parent. Tech is not worried for his child at all; he never has been. They have their wits and the work of their hands, and they can apply themself anywhere, anyhow. Even with graduating the top of their class several years predated. Barely cresting their adolescence, they set out to conquer the world with all initiative, and nobody is worried—except for maybe the sheer lengths to which they will go.
Even Echo, who has always been just shy of overbearing no matter if he’s Uncle or Father, has assured his family have an infallible outlook on life. He makes sure their skills bode well with time.
Crosshair tries to do the same.
And he knows deep down, he shouldn’t worry.
His worries aren’t directed towards his children’s capabilities per se, or his faith in their ability to function. They are his children. They can do anything.
But he worries for his son, who is maybe a bit too gentle, and his daughter, who is quick to caper in the face of trouble.
In their naivety, Crosshair is the one detained by cynicism. Because he knows of the world around him. He made it a point to learn before he ever brought them into it. He knows of malevolent intent, of those cunning and ruthless but who hide behind a saccharine smile and a promise of friendship to his young wandering ad’ika.
It pushes him to the brink.
And so Crosshair establishes contingency; because there’s always been method to his madness.
They don’t make it three rotations without the realization that Dad is staked out from afar, watching their every movement through his oldest and most trusty rifle.
Yes, he “really went there”.
His better half understands. But that doesn’t stop her from reeling him in and pointedly putting a stop to his lurking. He has to let his children live.
He just wants to protect them.
She understands this, too.
Because Crosshair looks at his children and he sees too much of himself. Too much vulnerability, too much determination. Too much compassion, the kind that’s untampered and readily available to all. The kind that’s taken advantage of, wrought and tarnished upon immediately stepping foot out there. He’s still putting himself back together to this day.
And he feels like a squabbling shiny all over again, freshly cleared for the field, setting out with the thunderclouds of Kamino rolling outside the viewport as he breaks atmosphere for the very first time, a misplaced audacity puffing his chest.
And he stops there. He’s projecting too much of his trepidations onto them.
