It was oh-four-thirty as Echo stood in the middle of the Havoc Marauder's small galley. He blinked at the wall for a moment, then dimmed the lights, sat down at the table, shut his eyes, and reconsidered his life choices.
His first caf of the day was sitting in the heating unit, brewing. His first caf. This was shaping up to be a five- or six-caf day at least. He hadn't slept well last night, or the night before that, or the night before that . . . or any night since he'd joined the Bad Batch, to be honest. The whirlwind action of his new squad's missions, interposed with getting used to his cybernetic implant and his prosthetics, to say nothing of getting used to his new teammates and their unusual method of functioning . . . that, and the lack of any real routine, had not been conducive to sleep.
This morning, Echo had fallen soundly asleep, just after oh-three-hundred. And then, not half an hour ago, he had been rudely awoken.
The sound of an explosive triple-sneeze made Echo jerk awake. Blinking tiredly, he propped a forearm on the edge of his hammock and gazed at the sergeant, who was sitting upright in his bunk. Hunter sneezed again, then returned his gaze, his expression one of mild surprise.
"What," Echo slurred dryly, already dozing off again. "You never sneezed before?"
"Wha – ah-choo! are you – ah-choo! talking about?" Hunter's eyes were watering badly now, and he pressed one edge of his blanket against them.
Above him, Crosshair woke up and rolled onto his stomach with an ill-tempered sigh. "Stop shaking the bunk," he mumbled into his pillow. "Go sneeze somewhere else."
Hunter had time only to cast a glower up at the mattress above him before he was sneezing into his sleeve again.
It finally dawned on Echo, ten seconds and three sneezes later, that either the sergeant was allergic to something, or he was sick. Since Hunter had never been allergic to anything before, and since he'd been fine when he went to bed, Echo presumed he was sick. And if he was sick, that meant everyone else would also get sick. Great.
After varying his sneezing with a few coughs, Hunter growled, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders until he almost disappeared from view, and flopped back onto his pillow.
Echo eyed him warily for a moment, then closed his eyes. It was early still, the Marauder was orbiting an unoccupied moon in the middle of nowhere, and they had nowhere to be. Sick sergeant or not, maybe he could get a few more minutes of –
From the other side of the room, Wrecker sneezed so hard he fell off the bunk. At least, that was what it sounded like: first Wrecker's loud sneeze, then an even louder thump. Echo turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, then peeked cautiously in Wrecker's direction.
Sure enough, Wrecker was lying on his back on the floor. "Ow," he mumbled tiredly, then glanced up to see that three of his teammates were staring at him. "What happened?"
Crosshair let out an offended sigh, buried his head under his pillow, and clamped both hands over his ears – probably in an effort to mute any further noises. Hunter just gazed back at Wrecker, looking confused.
"You fell out of bed," Echo told Wrecker, by way of keeping the explanation simple.
"Huh." Wrecker got to his feet, then sat heavily on his mattress and yawned. "I wonder how that happened."
Hunter sneezed again. Then Wrecker sneezed. Then – Echo squinted suspiciously at Crosshair's bunk. He hadn't heard anything, but that sudden jerk from the sniper had looked an awful lot like a purposefully muted sneeze . . .
Before Echo could decide whether or not it was worth trying to go back to sleep, Tech sat up in his bunk above Wrecker and said, "I think –"
Echo never found out what he thought, because Tech let out a sneeze that sounded like a wet tooka's. Echo ought to know. There'd been this stray tooka back at 79's. It hung around the front door and sneezed every time it got a whiff of alcohol, but nothing the clones said or did could drive it off. Stupid tooka, Echo thought irritably.
Tech sneezed again. "We appear to be sick."
Thank you, Captain Obvious. Echo rolled out of the hammock, vaguely aware that his sleep-deprived mind had put him in a less-than-pleasant mood, and stumbled out into the galley. He hated being awake and asleep at the same time. A fresh cup of caf might wake him up . . .
The fresh cup of caf sat on the table now, in front of Echo, untouched because he'd overheated it and steam was billowing from its surface. He thought about using his scomp link to lift the mug, instead of his hand, but it would be pointless. The liquid would still be too hot to drink.
After putting the caf on to brew, Echo had used Tech's medical scanner on everyone and then checked on their symptoms. Low-grade fevers, congestion, sore throats, aching muscles, a couple of headaches. . . The long and short of it was that his teammates were sick, and Echo wasn't. It was an incredibly common cold, caught once – and only once, if Tech's information was to be believed, which it usually was – during the lives of just about every human in the galaxy. Echo himself had already had it, well before he'd even made ARC trooper. He, and all the other clones there.
That week on the Resolute had been memorable. Everyone on the ship, with the exception of Ahsoka and Admiral Yularen and a handful of natborn officers, had caught it at the same time. It affected people . . . differently. Rex kept busy with his duties, hardly seeming to notice he was sick, and only irritated by the occasional sneeze or cough. The same could not be said for General Skywalker. He'd grown up on the desert planet of Tatooine and never gotten sick . . . and somehow, after moving to the center of the galaxy, he'd continued to not get sick. When he got it, it was much worse than anyone else's illness.
The general, Echo recalled with a hint of malicious glee, had been (and probably still was) an absolutely horrible patient. On the battlefield, General Skywalker got along with Kix seamlessly, working with him to save troopers' and civilians' lives . . . even if it meant being given medical care himself. On the ship, when it was Anakin's health under discussion, they were mortal enemies. No one knew for sure how the whole thing had started, but the rumors among the veteran clones usually involved needles, threats of dismemberment, and other unpleasant things.
Echo had never actually heard Kix threaten someone with dismemberment – not even Hardcase, who somehow ended up in medbay more frequently than anyone else, even during downtime – but if there was one person the senior medic was likely to make that threat to, it would be the general.
Taking a sip of his barely-cooled caf, Echo leaned back against the wall. Kix really hated it when troopers got what he called 'simple illnesses'. There was nothing to treat in a cold . . . except to give out throat spray for the severe sore throats. (Rex had wondered aloud – half-jokingly, Echo was pretty sure – if Kix really had to give everyone the throat spray. Rex said it had been blissfully quiet for the past two days with hardly anyone able to speak; then his eyes had gotten about twice their normal size when he realized General Skywalker had been standing behind him and was now frowning. Fives had told that story for days.)
Echo took another sip of caf. The reason Kix hated when troopers got mild illnesses, especially during downtime, was very simple: they didn't feel well enough to keep busy with normal extracurricular activities, such as working out in the gym or hitting the cantina; and they didn't feel poorly enough to be confined to barracks. The results of this state varied, and had been divided into four general categories.
A) Troopers like Echo tried to sleep it off.
B) Troopers like Hardcase dreamed up new ways of using explosives and specialized weaponry.
C) Troopers like Fives started mischief.
D) Troopers like Jesse looked around for anyone who seemed to be up to mischief and joined in with a will.
Echo and Fives had run the numbers during their time in the 501st, and even compared them with numbers collected in other battalions. (Waxer and Boil had gotten the numbers for the 212th, although their questioning Cody as to what his choice on the provided list would be had not really amused him.) The numbers, interestingly enough, seemed to be pretty consistent among the various groups of clones.
Four percent of clones picked option A and slept.
One percent of clones picked option B, putting the explosives-loving clones as a relatively safe minority.
Ninety-three percent of clones picked either option C or D, and caused or helped cause trouble.
The numbers did fluctuate depending on whether there were visiting clone troopers or – Force forbid – commandos onboard. For some reason, commandos had a really bad habit of bringing unregulated explosives and weaponry onto Republic cruisers. Whenever they were around, the one percent that usually picked option B would drastically increase to an eight percent.
But whatever the case, ninety-eight percent of clones, in general, picked one of the four options.
The remaining two percent of clones – the medics themselves – carried out their duties as usual, even when they were sick. In between, though, instead of joining in on normal activities, they barricaded themselves in medbay and waited for it to be over. Jesse suspected that the medics kept a secret stash of sabacc cards and Corellian whisky there, even though Kix and Coric swore up and down that their lives when not in the medbay involved only caf-drinking, filling out thousands of reports and request forms, sporadic eating, more caf-drinking, and a little sleeping for variety.
Echo smirked a little, then downed three gulps of caf. The real problem here was that he and his new team were in between missions – they had a week before they were supposed to arrive at their next objective. They'd gotten that news last night, and Hunter had said they'd decide where to go for shore leave tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow had become today, and everyone except Echo was sick. He couldn't help wondering which percentage of clones the Bad Batch members fell into, and whether or not he should just barricade himself in the cockpit. Maybe he could select a temperate, sparsely-populated and safe planet, pilot them there, land, and then slip out the airlock and take a nice, long stroll. . . Just in case his new squad turned out to be the doing-dangerous-things-when-bored type.
He was pretty sure Hunter and Crosshair were more the 'sleep it off' kind of guys, while Wrecker would be more like Hardcase. And Tech . . . ? Echo had no idea.
Actually, he really had no idea what any of them would do. The Bad Batchers, as far as he was aware, didn't have set activities for when they had downtime, not like regular clones did. Sure, Hunter often stared vaguely into the swirls of hyperspace – 'thinking', he always said – and spun his knife around; Crosshair polished his rifle and chewed toothpicks; Tech read, researched, and talked; and Wrecker hoisted the unfortunate gonk-droid over his head and bothered Crosshair. But those were their activities during downtime that occurred in short spurts, between action. Echo hadn't been with them long enough to know what they did during real free time.
Maybe he shouldn't think about it. Watching Tech spread his 'simple' projects out across the galley was stressful as it was – soldering connections right next to stacks of flammable materials was something Echo couldn't seem to convince Tech not to do.
No . . . it was too early for this. Echo really didn't need to think about what kinds of projects Tech might pull out now that he had some real time to work.
Come on, soldier, he thought. Think optimistically. Maybe they'll all be too sick to get up to much trouble.
The more pragmatic side of Echo disagreed. As soon as Hunter realized that all he and his teammates had was a mildly inconvenient illness, he had said, 'Business as usual, then' and gone back to sleep without a care.
Echo knew better. Force, did he know better. On the Resolute, at least there had been some semblance of order, even when the troopers did get into major brawls. The lack of interest in doing anything particular had nearly always ended in fights, which ended with half the troopers crammed into the brig. Here? With this wildly deviant group of commandos? Give it a few hours, and they'd either be at each other's throats, or they'd be destroying the ship.
Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration . . . I haven't known them long enough to really be sure . . . Maybe they'll just do something quiet for the next week, like take walks and observe nature . . .
Yeah. Echo swallowed the last of his caf and got to his feet. And maybe the droid armies will up and surrender under their own volition.
He sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his hand. Then he remembered how often he'd seen Rex do that exact same gesture when Echo or Fives did something and lowered his hand abruptly.
"Hey – Echo," Wrecker said, stumping cheerfully into the galley. "Want to make some breakfast?"
"I guess." Echo regarded him. "I just want it on the record that ration bars stirred into water and heated over a fire does not make soup."
"Aw, I only did that 'cause they always taste the same." Wrecker shrugged. "This time I meant real food."
"Technically –" Ah, here came the team's resident genius and dictionary – "the ration bars do count as 'real' food. Even when they have been dissolved in water."
Tech shot a stern look at Wrecker and sat down at the galley table. He had absolutely refused to eat Wrecker's version of soup. To be fair, Echo hadn't quite managed to gag it down, either. Hunter had eaten it, probably so Wrecker wouldn't feel bad (or he was just that hungry). Crosshair had also eaten it – though Echo thought he'd probably only done it out of sheer spite, because Tech and Echo were on the opposing side . . . he'd been disagreeing with them all day. It had been a long walk to the objective, and a long wait at the top of the hill, and both Echo and Tech had argued with him on every suggestion he made.
It didn't seem to matter to Crosshair that Hunter had asked for everyone's honest opinions.
Wrecker was glowering at Tech. "That's what I said!" he said loudly.
"In one sense, yes," Tech said, also looking bad-tempered. "But I dislike inaccuracy."
"Tech . . ." Echo sighed. "Give it a rest. You know what he meant."
"Yes. And now I have clarified it."
Echo narrowed his eyes.
Tech frowned and then sneezed. Twice.
"Hey, keep it down," Wrecker warned, pulling out a couple of ration packs.
"Why?" Echo asked warily. "Does he have a headache again?"
"I have three headaches." Hunter stalked grouchily into the room. "Their names are Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair."
Noted. Hunter had a headache.
Then Crosshair's voice floated in from the hall. "Last . . . but far from least." He didn't actually enter the room, for whatever reason.
Hunter went straight for the caf. Echo took the cup from him, filled it with more water than usual, and stuck it in the heater. It would probably be wise to dilute the caf a little today. . .
"Hey," Wrecker said, sounding hurt. "Why isn't Echo a headache?"
"Because," Hunter replied, sitting down more stiffly than usual. "He doesn't cause trouble for no reason."
Fives would have choked with laughter. Echo could practically hear him now. "Aw, Hunter thinks you're not a troublemaker. Ha ha! Shiny, isn't he?"
Privately, Echo thought Hunter was a bit of a shiny. Most other troopers would have been stunned to hear that, and justly so, but Echo figured that since Commander Cody agreed with him (privately) he must be right. For all their skills, these guys sometimes acted like a bunch of half-grown cadets. . . and he'd only known them a couple of weeks.
Also, of course, they were a full biological year younger than Echo was. He'd been pretty surprised to hear that – he and the rest of the Dominos had been considered young when they entered the war, and the Bad Batch had entered it at just about the same time, right before Rishi.
Echo glanced through the open doorway that led into the bunkroom. He could hear Crosshair lurking inside – why didn't he just come in already? Shaking his head, he sat next to Hunter and slid him the caf.
"Thanks," murmured Hunter. Instead of drinking it, he leaned back, clasping the hot cup between his hands.
Tech was leaning an elbow on the table, flicking idly through screens on his datapad with his free hand.
Wrecker was picking at his food. In fact, he was hardly touching it.
Echo let that astonishing fact sink in for a moment, then frowned. "Sarge?" he said warily. "What's on the agenda for today?"
Hunter looked blankly at him. "What?"
Tech, without moving his head, glanced between the two of them.
"What are we doing today?" Echo repeated patiently, wondering if he should get out the med scanner again.
"Flying." Crosshair's voice drifted through the doorway. "Around a moon. In the middle of nowhere."
Hunter revived enough to throw Echo's empty cup at the door controls. As soon as the door slid shut with a hiss, Hunter sat back with an irritated huff. "What he said."
Okay . . .
Then the door re-opened, and Crosshair finally deigned to enter, sidling around the table to lean against the far end. Wrecker shoved the hot stew at him, and Crosshair gave it a look that made it clear he wished it nothing but the worst.
Echo shook his head. "Maybe you should all try and get some more sleep," he suggested.
"Oh, please." Tech perked up a little, blinking twice. "It is a simple cold, Echo. I have multiple alterations to make to the Marauder, including but not limited to the heating system, the central stabilizers, the aft cargo door, the –"
He sneezed.
Echo raised an eyebrow at him, trying not to smirk. "You sound like a wet tooka."
Tech's mildly annoyed expression changed to one of outrage. "I do not."
"Oh, yeah?" Echo sat back, crossing his arm and his scomp link challengingly.
Tech narrowed his eyes, then grabbed his datapad and pulled up his long file of recordings.
Wrecker looked between Tech and Echo eagerly, while Crosshair and Hunter suddenly showed signs of life.
Tech selected a file and glanced at Echo. "This is a sneezing tooka."
The sound that played through his audio emitter was identical to the sneeze he'd just had. Tech's eyes went wide with horror, and he muted the datapad with a jab.
Hunter choked on his caf, laughing almost soundlessly, and Wrecker elbowed Crosshair, who was so amused by Tech's shock that he didn't shove Wrecker away.