No matter how many times Crosshair forces himself into civilian clothes, he still hates it. He especially hates wearing clothes tailored for someone Wrecker's size, the hooded poncho hanging off his lean frame like he's a cadet still waiting to hit their growth spurt. Even without the hat – which he'd adamantly refused to wear – he still looks like he's begging to be mugged. Hunter is even worse, walking around dressed like a kriffing farmer. The fact that no one's accosted them yet is baffling, though the concealed pistol at Cross' side and the vibroblade in his boot would make for a very short fight.

Tech hadn't been exaggerating. Imperial presence here is nothing compared to other occupations Crosshair's witnessed. As his vod explained this morning, the Imps' main objective on Ord Mantell is to wipe out the reigning crime syndicates, not hemorrhage time and resources chasing down individual fugitives. Normally, this would work in the Batch's favor, unless, of course, their mission involves infiltrating an Imperial stronghold, incidentally putting them right on the edge of Black Sun territory. Crosshair pulls the hood tighter around his face, ready for this whole karking ordeal to be over.

They turn another corner and immediately spot the guard tower that's been not-so-subtly installed atop what, according to Tech, was some kind of municipal building. The new, shining durasteel clashes with the building's worn exterior like a fungus overtaking a dying tree. Hunter spares Cross a brief glance, asking under his breath, "Tsikala?"

Crosshair can't help but scoff. "I'm always ready." He growls before ducking down the next side street. Hunter continues on, heading toward the far end of the building where he'll conduct his own recon before circling back. Cross sinks into a crouch as he reaches the alley that runs parallel to the main drag. Moving swiftly, he comes up on the eastside of the building without seeing so much as a maintenance droid.

It'd be a lie to say he's not just a little bit disappointed. His fingers have been itching to shoot something ever since they found out Omega is sick, since Hunter's face took on that gutted expression that hasn't gone away. Again, the demon in Crosshair's chest rears its head at the thought of his brother's suffering. It's a parasite between his ribs, feeding off his jealousy and anger and the guilt that always follows.

More than anything, he wants to put this demon to rest, to look at his aliit without losing himself to the maelstrom his emotions. He wonders if this darkness has always been there, inside of him, or if he did something to invite it in and encourage it to stay.

"It's not your fault." The kid assured him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. She stared up at him with vivid brown eyes – eyes he'd seen hundreds upon hundreds of times, yet none making him feel as seen or exposed as this kid did. "You can't help it."

Crosshair shakes his head, muttering a curse as he refocuses on the task at hand. He moves in closer, a deep unease settling in his stomach as he fully realizes what is at stake. If something happens to Omega, if she doesn't recover, it will kill his brothers, and the darkness will eat Crosshair alive.

0o0o0

They regroup at one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, using an old-fashioned fire escape to gain access to the roof. There's an enormous billboard advertising some local eatery that keeps them hidden from view of the guard tower, giving them a perfect vantage point of the front entrance. Hunter arrives just after Crosshair, the sniper stowing his pistol as quickly as he'd drawn it.

"Me'vaar ti gar?" Hunter says lowly, as if they may be overheard even up here.

Cross inclines his head toward the roof's edge and they both creep over. "There's nothing on the eastside except a few trash chutes. They're not wide enough to climb through but rappelling between them should give us cover from the street and sit in the blind spot of the tower."

Hunter nods. "There's a south and a westside entrance, four guards each. Haven't seen them rotate yet."

Crosshair groans internally, knowing what their next objective is. The following half hour passes with insulting lethargy, made worse by Hunter's compulsory need to check his comm every two minutes. A biting remark about daddy's little girl dies in his throat, thinking of Omega's white-knuckle grip on the rim of the toilet as her body performed its own exorcism. It reminds him of the nights he and Hunter would spend with their eyes shut tight as migraines ripped through their heads, or the intense growing pains that would leave Wrecker bedbound, writhing, and inarticulate.

The regs had no idea what it was like. They didn't grow up with sickness the way he and his brothers did. Occasionally, a battalion would fall victim to some Separatist bioweapon, leaving troopers vomiting blood or covered in whelks, but that was a novelty, a gossip-worthy event. No one batted an eye when Tech was kept awake for days at a time, testing his mind's endurance as well as his intellect. No one cared that, unlike the regs, the Batchers were constantly in and out of stasis tubes, their brains and bodies pried apart for the Kaminoans to study. That's how it had always been for Clone Force 99.

Seeing Omega suffer because of what the karking long-necks had done – or in this case, failed to do – to her, it's hard to see her as anything other than what she is. Their vod. Their aliit, bound to them by trauma and blood.

Movement on the street snaps Crosshair from his thoughts. Four guards have arrived to replace those stationed at the main entrance. He scowls. "It's not the hour. Think they're changing at random intervals?"

Hunter sighs. "Only one way to find out." He shimmies away from the roof's edge and sits back on his heels. "I'll stay here and monitor the guard changes. You head into town and pick up the supplies."

Crosshair rolls his eyes. As if Hunter will be of any use while his mind is stuck firmly back on the ship. "Don't be an idiot." He sneers and goes on before Hunter can argue. "Just get the supplies and go. I'll head back when I figure out the pattern."

Hunter opens his mouth slightly, like he feels he should argue but ultimately knows he doesn't want to. He wants to get back to the ship as soon as possible. Any idiot would understand why. What Crosshair doesn't expect is for Hunter to just keep… looking at him. There's a solid twenty seconds where Hunter just stares at him with this confusing expression that makes Crosshair's hair stand on end.

"What the kriff are you waiting for?" He snaps, pulling out his quadnocs and turning back to the municipal building. "We've got shit to do."

He refuses the take the device away from his face as he hears Hunter exhale, "Thanks, Cross."

His nearly silent footsteps retreat toward the fire escape. Crosshair chews on the corner of his lip, panic suddenly rising in his throat like bile. "Wait, Hunter!" He shouts. His brother turns immediately, hand shooting to where Cross knows he's concealing a dagger. Even at this distance, the sharpshooter can make out every fleck of grey in the familiar brown of his eyes. He feels foolish and stupid, but the words are out of his mouth before he can second guess them. "You'll comm me if something happens."

It's almost a question, which speaks more to the pain and hurt between them than anything else that's been said since Crosshair came home. Hunter's eyebrows knit together for a moment. Then his face hardens into something ardent and protective, and Crosshair thinks, for the first time in a while, that protectiveness might extend to him, too – and even more surprising, Crosshair doesn't mind it.

"Of course." Hunter says, and disappears over the ledge.

0o0o0

Grief – as it had been rather clinically explained to Omega – was a great sadness experienced after someone's death. The brain was overcome with neurochemicals and hormones that affected memory, cognition, attention span, even appetite. Symptoms often compounded into a mental state known in layman's terms as 'grief brain.' Sometimes Omega thought she had grief brain, but logic told her that wasn't possible, that you couldn't mourn someone you didn't know.

CT-4501 was laid out on the exam table, his lower body covered in a thin sheet. The absence of life dulled his tan skin, but his chest and arms were still covered in a tapestry of blue and green ink. It was oddly complementary of his bright pink hair, which had been tragically cut short while his body was being processed.

Omega knew not to ask his name. "Irrelevant," they would tell her. "The subject's designation is all that you require."

Maybe they were right. Maybe it would only hurt more to know the names of the troopers who were sent here, the ones that died unexpectedly and needed to be studied. CT-4501 suffered a cerebral aneurysm while stationed on Chandrila, which may not have gained the Kaminoans' attention if he wasn't the third of his batch to suffer the same fate.

Omega's heart twisted in sympathy, imagining what the sudden, unexplained losses must have meant for their brothers. Though she was forbidden from discussing the nature of Nala Se's research with anyone outside the lab – not that she really saw anyone from outside the lab – Omega dreamed of discovering what caused CT-4501's death so that she might tell his squad why this happened and maybe give them a little peace. Maybe it would protect them from getting grief brain.

Maybe, in exchange, they would tell her his name, whether he chose it himself or if it had been a gift. She thought Neon suited him, or maybe Blaze. Something bright and fierce that made his brothers smile when they said it. She smiled too, just a little, imaging the force of nature he must have been during his life.

"Have you found something amusing, Ω-219?" Omega nearly jumped at the drone of Lama Su's voice. She'd forgotten that he was visiting the lab today, increasingly concerned with the possible defects in the 45-line.

Her smile immediately vanished. "No, sir. CT-4501 is prepped and ready for examination."

Nala Se left her workstation to join them at the exam table. "Omega, would you kindly brief the Prime Minister on the objectives of today's study?"

Omega swallowed. "Yes, mistress. CT-4501 suffered a ruptured cerebral aneurysm while off-duty on Chandrila. He is the third member of the 45-line to die from intracerebral bleeding. A postmortem craniotomy is required to determine the cause, mode, and manner of death and evaluate any underlying conditions that may be present in the 45-line."

Lama Su betrayed nothing in his expression. "And how would you begin such a procedure?"

Omega tried to be objective, reciting the steps that she'd memorized and not think about them happening to CT-4501. "An incision is made at the base of the skull, extending from the back of one ear to the other. Once the scalp is removed, the skull is cut using the vibrosaw and the brain can be extracted from the cranial vault."

The Prime Minister looked between Omega and her mentor, his eyes changing in some way that made Omega squirm. "Impressive." He said, addressing Nala Se. "You have done well to harness the young clone's intellect."

She's breathed the tiniest sigh of relief and stepped back to let the surgical droids through, but Lama Su raised his hand, and she froze. "How many of these procedures have you observed, Ω-219?"

Omega panicked for a second, feeling as though she were being tested. She'd observed Nala Se perform several postmortem examinations, though none with the explicit purpose of investigating possible defects. They'd been for Nala Se's own research, or at least that's what the girl had assumed, but was it wrong to tell Lama Su this? Her mentor was incredibly private about her work, but she'd also told Omega to never keep information from her superiors.

She looked briefly to Nala Se, who gave her a small nod. Omega straightened. "Eighteen, sir." She answered honestly. It occurred to her just then that she'd seen more dead bodies than years she'd been alive.

Lama Su's expression sharped into something quite frightening and Omega wondered if she'd misinterpreted her mentor's signal. The Prime Minister turned his scrutiny to Nala Se. "I believe the young clone is more than ready to play a supporting role in this operation." He inclined his head briefly to Omega. "You may proceed."

Omega's blood ran cold. Around her, medical droids buzzed about, setting up instruments and getting the body into position, but it was all happening at such a distance, like she'd been teleported into the sky and was looking down on the scene from above.

"Prime Minister," Nala Se spoke up, shifting closer to Omega, "my expertise will be critical in determining the nature of CT-4501's defect. While Omega is technically skilled, she does not possess the qualifications necessary to perform such a procedure."

Lama Su narrowed his depthless eyes. "Which is why you will still be the chief examiner. I am simply recognizing that the clone's supposed skills are wasted as a mere observer. Ω-219, you are Nala Se's designated medical assistant, are you not?"

It took too long for Omega's awareness to override her terror. "I- uh… I'm… y-yes." She felt dizzy as she squeaked, "Yes, sir."

"Then do not waste anymore time." The Kaminoan ordered, moving away from the surgical field, though his presence still loomed over them.

Omega couldn't breathe.

CT-4501 was a person, with tattoos and scars and stories. He was a soldier with brothers who loved and mourned him, a man with whom she shared blood but didn't know his name. She couldn't do this. She'd watched Nala Se pull clones apart down to their marrow, but she'd been able to hold herself at arm's length, retreat into the recesses of her mind until she could convince herself it wasn't really happening.

Nala Se's voice somehow reached her despite the blood pounding in her ears. "Come, Omega. I have every confidence in you."

There was a venom hidden in the sweetness of her encouragement, a reminder. Be vigilant, it warned. The Kaminoans do not tolerate inefficacies. With trembling hands, Omega accepted the surgical gloves offered to her by a 2-1B droid. Her legs possessed a greater sense of propriety than her brain, the latter screaming at her to turn and run, the other carrying her dutifully forward.

Once they were wearing the proper medical coverings, Nala Se turned to her pupil, expectantly. "Are you ready to begin?"

Another droid placed a scalpel in Omega's hand, the metal tool burning like dry ice. Every nerve-ending felt as if it were on fire and if Omega tried to respond, smoke would come pouring out of her mouth. But her superior had asked a question, and they always expected an answer, so she inhaled, her mouth tasting like ash, and said, "Yes, mistress."

o0o0o

Omega sits bolt upright, choking on the acrid taste in her mouth. She gags over and over again, trying to expunge the embers smoldering in her stomach, burning through her body and setting fire to her blood. Soot lines her throat as she heaves another ragged breath.

Someone shushes her, a voice she's heard in echoes throughout Tipoca City, yet not quite the same. "Deep breaths, vod'ika. Like me." The voice takes a slow inhale, then releases it in an exhale that ghosts across her face.

Omega blinks, fighting her heavy eyelids open each time. Beside her, there is a man with yellow-tinted goggles and a black under suite, the symbol of the Republic printed on his shoulder. He's still breathing in a steady rhythm waiting for her to copy. Is he a doctor? Has something happened to her?

She jolts when a hand cups her jaw, another wiping around her mouth with something soft and smelling of antiseptic. "Sorry." The man says. "There's a little spit-up."

So, he is a doctor? A human doctor? Why isn't she being evaluated by Nala Se or one of the other Kaminoans?

Omega turns her head to take in her surroundings. Her muscles lag behind her thoughts and she has to fight her body into doing what she wants. The room around her shifts in and out of focus, but she knows that this is no Kaminoan facility. Is this another test?

There's a buzzing in her ear, and she realizes the man beside her is speaking. "Omega, are you alright? How are you feeling?"

She startles when he doesn't use her designation. Only Nala Se speaks to her like that. What is this? "I… I'm…" The words turn to vapor in her mouth. Something is wrong, here. She needs answers, needs to run, but shadows dance across her vision and the room won't stop spinning.

"Are you hungry?" The man says. "You haven't eaten anything since you were sick yesterday."

Sick? She's not sick, she can't be. Clones do not get sick. Sick clones are defective. Defective clones die horribly, and their brothers never know what happened to them. Sick clones do not have names. Sick clones are torn apart and studied in pieces. She is not sick. She is not sick. She is not sick.

"I'm… no… I'm not…"

Her heart thunders in her chest, eyes stinging as sweat drips in at the corners. Why is it so hot? She moves to wipe her sleeve across her forehead but finds her arm encumbered, a sharp pain ringing out from the crook of her elbow.

"Careful." The man pulls her arm down and her stomach churns at the sight of the tube penetrating her skin.

There had been a test, and clearly, she'd failed.

She is being processed. They are going to take her to the lab. Nala Se is going to cut open her head and dig around her brain until they discover what's wrong with her. No one will know what happened to her. No one will miss her.

But she's not sick.

She's not sick.

She's not sick!

Omega throws up her other hand, trying with all her might to pull the tube free, but her muscles are barely cooperating. "I'm… not… sick…" she wheezes.

"Omega, please stop." The man pulls her hand away, holding both firmly in his grasp. "I know you don't like needles, but –"

"No!" She shrieks, some hidden strength allowing her weak mind to focus, to do something. "I'm not sick!" She wrenches her left arm from his grip and pushes against his chest. "Stay out of my head!"

She's vaguely aware of her skin splitting, of her blood seeping out from under the medical tape. The man doesn't budge, capturing Omega's wrist. The pain shocks her into stillness for a moment and she cries out. The man immediately lets go, then closes his fists around Omega's forearms.

"Omega," he calls to her as if she's in another room, "you're safe. I need you to calm down."

"No!" She tries to kick him, tries to tug her arms free, but her veins are filling with tar. Blackness creeps into the corners of her vision and the room is a blur of metal. Still, she has to fight, she has to.

"I don't want to die here!"

The pressure on her arms finally loosens and she scrambles backward. Her elbow connects with the wall as her limbs try to follow her brain's directive, but everything is so muddled and confusing. There's a disastrous moment where she her hands connect with nothing and her head pitches back – she must have reached the end of the exam table. Then there's something solid around her shoulders and under her knees, cradling her against cool plastoid. It's such a relief on her burning skin that she forgets to run, simply melts against whatever is holding her.

"Aw, kid," a voice booms far too loudly, "what's the matter?"

Omega groans. She's too hot and tired and confused to play whatever game this is. That's all her life has ever been – games and tests – and no matter what Nala Se says, she always feels like she's losing.

"I don't want to die here." She admits, throat so raw she can't manage more than a whisper. Her consciousness is slipping, she can feel it, and the last thing she remembers is feeling utterly and completely alone.