Chapter Text
Hunter moves carefully through the dim corridor, the beam of his helmet light cutting through swirling dust. He raises a fist to signal a halt, boots crunching softly on warped deck plates underfoot. The once-majestic Lucrehulk-class battleship lies in ruin around them – half-collapsed bulkheads, sparking conduits, and the eerie emptiness of a sprawling battleship that’s long dead.
“Is there anything upstairs?” Hunter asks into his comm. He keeps his voice low; in the silence of the wreck, even a whisper feels loud.
“Nada,” comes Wrecker’s disappointed grunt over the channel. “This tin can's picked clean. No clankers left to smash, no loot – nothin'!”
Despite the levity, Hunter can hear the tension beneath his brother’s words. They all feel it – the uneasy stillness of a graveyard. This ship was boarded in a naval battle weeks ago, and yet, they’ve found nothing to recover. Hunter exchanges a glance with Crosshair, who prowls a few steps behind, Firepuncher rifle at the ready. Crosshair’s expression is hidden by his helmet visor, but Hunter doesn’t need to see his face to sense his agitation.
“The bridge is a total loss,” Tech reports, his clipped tone coming in over the comm channel. “The memory cores are fried. I am not finding any recoverable data.”
Hunter exhales harshly through his nose. Republic High Command sent Clone Force 99 to scout the crashed Separatist dreadnought for intel or bodies lost in the fighting. All for naut.
“Finish your sweep, then we regroup,” orders Hunter.
He and Crosshair are combing the lower decks while Tech and Wrecker search above. The two pairs are connected only by static-laced comms; the wreck can make their signals patchy.
“Copy that, sarge,” Tech replies. “Wrecker, please,” he goes on, with a stressed note of impatience like he is repeating himself. Which he probably is. “Mind where you step. This structure is structurally unsound.”
“Structurally unsound,” Crosshair mutters dryly, still rooted to the spot behind Hunter and his order to stop. “One wrong move and the whole thing could come down. Charming.”
Hunter manages a faint smile beneath his helmet. Crosshair’s sardonic humor is a good sign; if his brother is cracking wise, his heckles aren’t too raised about the errand mission. Still, something about this place keeps the hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck standing on end. He can’t shake the feeling they are being watched – or that the wreck itself is waiting for something.
He sweeps his flashlight over a gaping hole in the corridor wall to their left. Beyond lies a cavernous hold, perhaps a cargo bay, now filled with twisted beams and debris. Dangling wires spark intermittently, casting jittery shadows on Hunter and Crosshair’s paused figures. Hunter’s enhanced senses prickle. The air carries a faint, acrid scent that doesn’t belong – something chemical, sharp, and sweet beneath the usual charred-metal odour of wreckage. He inhales slowly, filtering it, filing it through the databank of his enhanced senses – smell included. It reminds him of… fuel. Possibly rhydonium fumes, though faint, not quite there. If fuel cells ruptured in the crash, there could be residual vapors. It could also be the planet itself; the Lucrehulk slammed hard into the surface when it crashed, and it’s partially submerged in a bog. Planetary scans and reports from the battalion that razed this battle indicated the planet was safe for them to land upon. Even their own scans – and Tech’s paranoia slash preparedness – reported safe air quality from within the wreckage.
But a shiver still runs up Hunter’s spine.
He taps the side of his helmet, cycling through the air filters. The odour from the exposed hold cuts through even his helmet’s scrubbers.
“Tech,” he finds himself asking anyway, “are your scans picking up anything on our position? Might be residual fuel or coolant down here.”
“Scanning,” Tech replies, followed by a pause. “I am not detecting anything significant. If something has spilled, levels are likely minimal.”
Hunter frowns. His senses are rarely wrong – or never wrong if you ask his charges. He motions for Crosshair to continue to hold.
“Crosshair, check your seals,” he says quietly, not over the comm. “Something smells off.”
Crosshair doesn’t hesitate; the sniper presses a gloved hand to the coupling at his helmet’s neck, ensuring it’s tight. He gives Hunter an affirmative, curt nod in return.
At Hunter’s order they advance again, slower now. Hunter’s hand hovers near the knife sheathed in his gauntlet – if something is in the air, a spark could–
He freezes. Under his boot, the deck crunches and then squelches. He crouches, running a finger along the floor plating. A thin sheen of residue glistens on his glove in the flashlight beam. He brings it closer to his visor, sniffing cautiously.
The sharp chemical burn in his nostrils confirms it. Fuel. And not standard coolant either – something else. Mixed with the bog, maybe. Or maybe the Separatists were carrying more dangerous cargo than clankers and the willingness to wage war.
“We step lightly,” he warns Crosshair in a low voice. “There’s residue down here. Possibly rhydonium.”
Crosshair mutters a curse, immediately lifting his foot to take a more careful stance. Hunter straightens and toggles his comm. “Tech, Wrecker, heads-up. There’s residue in the lower decks. Irregular. It’s not on the scans.”
A burst of static answers. Hunter tries again.
“Tech, do you read?”
Nothing. The comm line crackles faintly, but no voices. They must have moved out of range or they might be behind too much twisted durasteel… and whatever is lingering in this bog, interacting with the spilled fuel.
Hunter swears under his breath. “Come on,” he says to Crosshair, voice hushed. “Slow and steady. We don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”
“Now we agree.”
At least his helmet hides Hunter’s eyeroll.
They edge forward through the debris-choked passage. Every step feels precarious. Hunter’s heartbeat thuds in his ears. At the far end of the corridor, the emergency bulkhead doors hang crookedly off their tracks. Beyond them lies what looked like an access shaft back up to the higher decks. That will take them closer to Tech and Wrecker.
“Let’s head ba–” Hunter begins, turning to signal Crosshair.
He never finishes his sentence.
Crosshair has been following close, eyes on their flanks. As Hunter turns, Crosshair takes a final half-step – and the toe of his boot catches the metal floor. The sound of durasteel on durasteel was like a sharp chirp in the stillness.
It happens in an instant.
The corridor lights up in searing orange. Hunter’s vision goes white-hot; the shockwave hits a split-second later, a concussive punch that lifts him off his feet.
There is no time to think. Only instinct.
Hunter throws himself toward Crosshair.
He tackles the sniper low, arms wrapping around Crosshair’s waist as he drives them both toward the floor. If he can shield him—
Heat like a sun slams into Hunter’s back. He gasps – or tries to. The blast steals all air from him, from the corridor. Instead, searing pain arcs up Hunter’s spine. He dimly feels Crosshair underneath him, hears a yell – maybe his own voice or Crosshair’s.
Metal screams as the corridor explodes. A wall of fire and force roars past, over and through them. Hunter’s senses scream with burning brightness and a thunderous roar that drowns out the rest of the world.
For one dizzying moment, Hunter registers a single clear thought: I hope the others aren’t close.
Then in the next moment, everything goes dark.
Crosshair’s world has been reduced to pain and ringing silence. He groans, disoriented, as consciousness returns in fits and starts. Something heavy pins him to the warped floor. Blinking rapidly, he tries to focus. Through the spiderwebbed crack in his helmet visor, he sees the ceiling – blackened and partially caved in. He is flat on his back. His ears ring so loudly it drowns all other sound.
Crosshair grits his teeth, fighting through the haze.
Hunter.
Hunter.
Memory floods back in a sickening wave: the spark, the fireball, Hunter slamming into him, shielding him from the blast.
Crosshair sucks in a breath, ignoring a new flare of pain in his side. “Hunter!” he rasps. His voice sounds muffled to his own ears. He shoves at Hunter’s unmoving shoulder. His sergeant lies sprawled half on top of Crosshair, face-down, and disturbingly still.
Crosshair wriggles out from under Hunter’s weight, panic lending him strength. Awkwardly sprawled, he rolls Hunter over onto his back. Hunter’s helmet is still on, but the blast has left its mark – scorch marks streak the matte black and red plating of his armour, and the chest piece is charred, the normally sturdy plastoid now cracked and brittle.
“Idiot. Come on.” Crosshair growls, trying for urgency. No response. Hunter’s head lolls to the side, utterly unconscious.
Crosshair’s hands are shaking as he fumbles for the release catch on Hunter’s helmet. He needs to see his face, see if– pop-hiss! The seal releases and Crosshair lifts the helmet off.
Hunter’s head slumps back, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are closed, face slack. Soot smudges one cheek, but mercifully there are no obvious wounds above the neck. Crosshair presses two fingers under Hunter’s jaw, searching for a pulse. There – faint but there. The relief makes Crosshair light-headed.
“Hunter, wake up,” he barks, more harshly than he means. He pats Hunter’s cheek lightly, then harder when there is no reaction. Usually that would earn him at least a groggy swat or curse. But Hunter remains slack, eyes shut, breathing—
Crosshair realises with dawning horror that he can’t see Hunter breathing. No rise or fall of his chest. No hiss of breath from his slightly parted lips. The ringing in Crosshair’s ears makes it impossible to tell if any air is moving in the charred passageway at all.
“No, no, no…” Crosshair snarls under his breath.
Urgency spikes through his veins, cutting through the shock. He has to get help. Where are Tech and Wrecker? Are they in range?
Were they also caught in the explosion?
Did the wreckage swallow them up and trap them in the bog?
He slaps the side of his own helmet, missing the first time. He tries the comm. The shared line. Tech’s line. Wrecker’s line. The direct link with the Marauder. Nothing but static hisses back at him each time.
No.
Crosshair scans their surroundings frantically. The corridor behind them is an inferno – flames lick along the walls from the direction they came, hungrily consuming oxygen. The blast has buckled the floor and collapsed part of the ceiling ahead, but he can see a path over twisted support beams leading upward.
That has to be the way out. Hunter tried saying so, before… before…
A cough suddenly rattles out of Crosshair’s chest. The smell of acrid smoke hits him through the filters of his helmet.
He doesn’t have any time. He can’t wait for the others. He can’t pause to help Hunter breathe.
Staggering to his feet, Crosshair wills his balance to hold – even as a searing ache flares from his side. Flames have scorched through his bodyglove on one side; on his hip, abdomen, and the top of his leg. Hunter must have landed on him at an angle; these are the only spots he can feel himself injured.
Hunter is far worse off.
Hunter who shielded him.
“You idiot!” he declares again, to the burning Lucrehulk wreckage, or to Hunter, he can’t decide which. And he regrets it immediately when he clumsily sucks in another breath of billowing smoke afterwards. The longer he stays here, the higher chance of this being it.
He’s not letting Hunter die without first giving him a piece of his mind.
Crosshair finds his balance and leans down to re-secure Hunter’s helmet over his head. He hooks his hands under Hunter’s armpits. There, he drags Hunter’s limp form backwards, Hunter’s boots scraping over debris and flame alike. At least everything ignited – and this is probably why they can’t find any bodies. The wreckage, combined with leaking fuel and whatever lingers in the planetside bog, must have ignited upon impact and burned everything to dust.
Each backwards step is agony and strain. Crosshair’s legs tremble with the effort. His vision wavers. His lungs burn; from the smoke or from intermittently holding his breath, it doesn’t matter. The air tastes of smoke and chemicals, even through his helmet’s scrubbers. He coughs again, nearly losing his grip on Hunter as his chest spasms. Over the lingering ringing in his ears, Crosshair begins to make out a new sound: muffled thumps and echoing voices from somewhere ahead, above the collapsed section. He pauses, chest heaving.
Contrary to himself, he lets himself hope.
“Tech! Wrecker!” Crosshair shouts, voice raw and wounded.
For a second, he thinks it hasn’t carried. Or that he has gone and proven himself right once again.
Then, miraculously, a distant shout: “Crosshair?!”
Wrecker’s booming voice – Crosshair would have sagged in relief if he wasn’t holding Hunter.
“Down here!” he hollers back, throat burning from smoke.
Through the dusty haze, he sees movement atop the pile of fallen beams blocking the access corridor. A moment later, a large sheet of durasteel is heaved aside and a familiar armored giant appears, clambering down with surprising nimbleness.
Wrecker.
Tech is right behind him, bespectacled eyes glinting in the firelight.
“We got you, hang on!” Wrecker calls, coughing as he drops down next to them. He recoils visibly as he takes in Hunter’s unmoving form and Crosshair’s battered state.
“Hunter’s hurt,” Crosshair manages. “He’s not breathing.” It’s all he needs to say.
Wordlessly, Wrecker reaches down and lifts Hunter out of Crosshair’s exhausted grasp with ease, cradling their sergeant’s body in his broad arms. Hunter’s head lolls against Wrecker’s shoulder, and Wrecker’s gauntlet comes away from Hunter’s back smeared with something black and wet.
“Set him down, quickly,” Tech urges from above.
Wrecker makes short work of climbing free of the scorched level of the Lucrehulk. Crosshair ascends after him, urgency propelling him to help, now that help is actually here. This level is remarkably unscathed, ignorant to the destruction down below. Crosshair can ponder why later – right now he crashes to his knees where Wrecker puts Hunter down. Tech kneels next to them, scanner in hand. Between all three of them, they peel away Hunter’s helmet and armour. Or what remains of it. The chestplate is cracked and charred, and underneath is a blackened body glove, partially melted to Hunter’s torso. Crosshair sucks in a sharp, dizzying breath at the sight. Despite himself, nausea crawls up his chest, and bile rises in his throat. The blast has seared through the gaps where armour didn’t fully cover Hunter – angry red and blistered burns crawl from Hunter’s waist to his chest, and wrap around to his back. More parts of his undersuit are fused to his skin. The smell hits Crosshair next, even through his helmet’s filters. The guilt hits third. This could have been both of them if Hunter hadn’t jumped on top of him.
But Crosshair swallows it all down. He forces himself to control his breathing – which has spiralled nearly out of control.
“This… this is bad,” Wrecker says shakily.
“He has a pulse,” Tech returns evenly. But the forced calm in Tech’s voice is a thin veneer; all of them know that Wrecker is right.
Tech goes through the medical motions. He sets the scanner aside and tugs off his helmet. He presses two fingers to the side of Hunter’s neck, confirming his pulse for himself. Then he tilts Hunter’s chin back, ear over his mouth. A slight shake of Tech’s head tells the story.
“No airflow,” he clips out. “It is likely blast lung. Wrecker, you need to start compressions.”
“I… I…”
“Wrecker, now.”
Wrecker hesitates again, and Crosshair understands why, looking at the red charcoal that Hunter’s chest has been reduced to. But a steely glare from Tech, one that also makes Crosshair dizzy, Wrecker laces his big hands over the centre of Hunter’s chest and begins pumping in steady, firm motions. Meanwhile, Tech rifles through his pack, and produces a small injector – maybe a stimulant or a pain blocker – and jabs it into Hunter’s thigh. Then he pulls back, re-secures his pack, and moves to assist Wrecker with rescue breaths in the correct timing.
“Come on, Hunter,” Crosshair finds himself whispering. He can still taste smoke and a matching coldness that makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak.
He hovers at Hunter’s side, uselessly clenching and unclenching his hands. He should be doing something, anything – but all he can do is watch and hope for Hunter’s chest to rise on its own.
After what feels like an eternity – Hunter gives a sudden, jerking twitch. He makes a horrible sound, wet, dirty, and gasping.
“Stop,” directs Tech sharply.
Wrecker lifts his hands, and indeed, Hunter’s chest rises in a shallow attempt at inhalation. But the motion stutters, his breathing quick and faint. Hunter also doesn’t wake; unconscious, he has only begun breathing reflexively, and it sounds wrong.
“He is not getting enough oxygen,” Tech says. His goggled eyes flick over the burns covering Hunter’s torso. The skin there is charred – and stiff. “The burns are constricting his chest.”
Crosshair blinks and, a second later, draws the same medical conclusion. Tech might be the one with the textbook-like brain – and the sole twin not presently paralysed by shock – but Crosshair is no fool. Even Wrecker said it; this is bad. And there is only one solution, one that Crosshair acquiesces to when Tech meets his eyes. He gives Tech a stiff nod, then sits back on his heels, fighting to breathe, fighting the sickly churning in his stomach.
“Wrecker, your knife,” indicates Tech, holding out a hand.
“Wha’? Why?”
“We must cut through the burned tissue so his lungs can expand.”
Apparently, Wrecker knows better than to object a second time. He swallows hard, and bobs his helmeted head in a weak nod. He hands Tech his vibroknife from its sheath.
“Crosshair, his head.”
It’s like watching someone else move for him; Crosshair’s gloved hands move to Hunter’s head and gently cradle it. Crosshair’s fingers walk downward and depress into Hunter’s neck in a spider-like vice.
The sound which follows is gruesome – a wet, tearing slice. Even though the blade’s oscillating edge cuts easily, Hunter’s body flinches ever so slightly as the knife parts burned flesh. A thin line of blood wells where Tech has cut through the leathery burnt skin, but almost immediately, Hunter’s next breath rattles in deeper.
Vaguely, Crosshair registers Wrecker jerking away from the scene. He rips off his helmet and temporarily disappears from view.
“Good,” he hears Tech say shakily. “Good.”
What follows is a blur – a careful evacuation from the corpse of a sinking battleship. Crosshair leads, Wrecker carries, and Tech monitors. Outside, the bog is unchanged and uncaring to their plight. The sky is streaked orange and brown with a sunrise or a sunset. Crosshair doesn’t care to remember the time; he only focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.
Nearby, Havoc Marauder is perched atop a rocky outcropping, lording over the swamp and the remains of the Lucrehulk.
“There’s a trauma centre,” someone says in Crosshair’s voice, as they ascend the ship’s ramp. “In the reports. It was for the civilians. It should still be operational.”
“I recall.” Tech doesn’t pause. He points somewhere deeper into the vessel’s innards. “Over there, Wrecker. Lay him there. Crosshair, medkit and O2.”
They follow their orders – even with Crosshair trying to shake himself out of… whatever this is. It’s usually him who takes over for Hunter. But now it’s him who limps to the port storage and collects their medical supplies, sliding back to Tech’s side with them. He passes Wrecker who makes for the cockpit. Tech has removed the rest of Hunter’s armour and has started cutting away the smouldering bodyglove. Hunter’s chest remains a horrific sight – red, blistered flesh marred by the long incision down the middle. There is no blood, even if Crosshair swears that he smells it; a cold, metallic sensation that grips him and keeps him removed, merely observing the fallout.
Tech’s hands are astonishingly steady as he accepts their supplies from Crosshair. Now, he works an oxygen mask over Hunter’s slack face.
“Hook this to the main supply,” Tech says, handing him tubing, and Crosshair silently complies.
The ship lurches as it rises, inertial dampeners whining to keep up with Wrecker’s heavy-handed flying. Crosshair only notices because he has to steady himself overhead – and he automatically grabs onto Hunter’s shoulder to steady him the same. His hand slides part-way off instead, and Hunter’s skin disintegrates in the shape of Crosshair’s handprint left behind.
Crosshair stares. And stares. And stares.
A sheen of grey starts to encroach over his vision. Like a wool pulled over his eyes. This is more than a blur this time. This passes over and through Crosshair – until he remembers to breathe a time later. Mainly because Wrecker has shoved his face abruptly into Crosshair’s and their foreheads thunk together with a hollow sound.
But he had his helmet on – didn’t he?
“Whoa, hey! Cross. Easy. You back with us?”
Wrecker pulls back somewhat, leaving Crosshair’s head room to sag forward. But a meaty hand catches him in the forehead again right after. Wrecker then tips his head gently back, and Crosshair finds himself sitting on the floor of Havoc Marauder. He doesn’t remember sitting down. His legs are outstretched in front of him. The ramp is down across the hold, with cool air filtering in.
His brow furrows under Wrecker’s hand. He opens his mouth to ask a question but Wrecker is faster.
“Here, now you’ve chilled out a bit, lemme put this on ya.”
His brother produces an oxygen mask, seemingly from out of nowhere. He manoeuvres it over Crosshair’s face gingerly, then replaces his hand on Crosshair’s forehead, encouraging him to lie his head back against the wall. Wrecker’s grip is warm, comforting, and the oxygen which he shakily inhales is jarringly cold.
“Just sit there and breathe a bit,” says Wrecker. He is perched precariously over Crosshair, but with the recognition Crosshair gives him, he shuffles over and sits down next to him. From there, Wrecker goes on, “Shock’s a right bitch. But yer okay. I said to ‘em outside, let’s just give ya a bit.
“They took Hunter already. Tech went with ‘em. Straight into bacta, they said. The centre was for processin’ mass casualties from the ground assault. Mainly civvies. Sad. But they said that those clones crashed that droid ship away on purpose. Saved a whole bunch o’ lives. Meant they had room for us. Go figure, huh?”
He adjusts Crosshair’s head against his hand, this time, smoothing back some of his hair. Crosshair’s eyes slide shut with the soothing motion.
“They wanna take a look at ya when yer ready. You got burned a bit too. And probably inhaled a good bit o’ smoke.”
Wrecker keeps petting Crosshair’s head as he talks, then as he falls silent afterwards. It makes it easier for Crosshair to orientate himself. The paralytic grey which overtook him recedes with each carding of Wrecker’s fingers through his hair.
But it also means that Crosshair starts to remember:
The strange tang in the air which Hunter reported.
Their nimble retreat to regroup with the others.
Crosshair’s foot catching on the debris as Hunter skidded to a halt in front of him.
And now…
Slowly but surely, enough of Crosshair’s sensibilities have returned for him to pull down the oxygen mask. He feels Wrecker baulk beside him, but he retracts just as fast when Crosshair starts to speak.
“He… Hunter, he jumped in front of me.”
Wrecker gives a humourless snort. “‘Course he did.”
“He always does this. Tries to get himself killed.”
A sudden spring of anger coils within Crosshair’s chest. Wrecker feels it too; he retracts his hand from Crosshair’s head.
“It’s idiotic,” Crosshair hisses. “What, he thinks we can’t handle ourselves? That we need him to play human shield every kriffing time?”
Wrecker opens his mouth, likely to protest, but Crosshair keeps going, his volume rising. “We could have lost him. If Tech hadn’t…” He can’t finish. The image of Hunter’s slack face is burned into Crosshair’s mind, and suddenly far too fresh. Crosshair’s voice cracks into a whisper. “I thought he was dead. I–I froze. And I thought–”
“Hey. Hey. He isn’t.”
“This time. Next time, we might not be so lucky. And he’ll act like that’s fine. As long as we’re okay, it’s fine if we–”
Wrecker abruptly seizes Crosshair’s arm. He squeezes hard, forcing Crosshair to stop.
“Listen to me,” says Wrecker, voice gentle but firm. “We all look out for each other. What, ya think if it were me ‘bout to get blasted, you wouldn’t do the same?” He gives Crosshair a little shake. “You’d do it for him, wouldn’t ya?”
Crosshair clenches his jaw so hard he feels dizzy. He still has the oxygen mask in his hand, and with some better judgement, he replaces it over his mouth for a few long moments. Breathing deeply, he wills himself to calm down.
He takes the mask away again to finally reply, “Yes. Of course I would.”
“There ya go,” Wrecker returns encouragingly, as if that explains everything. His grip softens on Crosshair’s arm, now more comforting than restricting. “He knows that. We all know it. Doesn’t make it easier, but…”
“There is no but,” snaps Crosshair over the top of him. But despite himself, he feels the coil in his gut loosen somewhat. The anger dissipates with it, and instead, Crosshair finds his face contorting. At his core, Crosshair is not an emotional man. But at this core, stripped down by exhaustion and pain, about this, he feels strongly.
“I don’t want to watch him die. I can’t.”
Wrecker’s expression crumples at the admission. He doesn’t reply right away, either. But he does lean in to half-hug him; he rests his cheek against the top of Crosshair’s head and links their arms together in comforting closeness. Against him, Wrecker gives a shaky exhale himself.
“I know,” he whispers finally. “I know.”
They stay like that for a long moment, two brothers leaning on each other, literally and figuratively.
Until a polite, short cough breaks them apart. Crosshair looks up to see a human medic standing in Havoc Marauder’s open doorway with a tray of supplies.
“Sorry to interrupt. Which one of you is Crosshair?”
Sighing, Crosshair makes himself known. He lifts a wordless hand and he doesn’t brush off Wrecker from helping him to his feet.