Wrecker chortled merrily as the gunship they were on bucked and dived like an angry bantha as it desperately evaded surface fire.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hands were shaking as he clutched his blaster close, but this was still kriffing exhilarating. Far more exciting than disabling an explosive device with a very short fuse. And that was the most exciting thing Wrecker had ever experienced.

Looking round at his brothers, however, Wrecker was disappointed to see that none of them appeared to share his enthusiasm.

Tech was gripping hold of the overhead rail as if his very life depended on it. Which perhaps it did, but he didn't need to be so quite so dramatic. Hunter's shoulders were tense, and even with his helmet on, Wrecker could tell that the man was scowling. Crosshair's arms were folded tightly to his body, and every so often, he directed a sideways look at General Skywalker.

Wrecker thought that he might quite like General Skywalker if given half a chance. Even if he was a Jedi, as Tech suggested. He had seemed very enthusiastic at letting the four of them join him and the other regs on the front line. In Wrecker's mind, that practically made them buddies.

The assortment of regs was a different matter. None of them seemed particularly thrilled to be sharing an LA-AT with Clone Force 99, some even going so far as to be outright unfriendly. The blonde haired one (the only individual unique enough to be properly distinguishable from the others) had done nothing but scowl at them throughout the entirety of their briefing. Wrecker wasn't quite sure why. They hadn't been near the guy long enough for him to decide he didn't like them.

The gunship jigged again, and their was a moment of weightlessness as his feet left the ground. Hollering in surprise, Wrecker momentarily lost his balance, arms windmilling as he tried to stop himself from falling on his face. One of his fists caught a reg in the side, sending the guy tumbling into another, who caught the fellow and pushed him back on his feet.

"Watch it!" yelled the reg that had done the catching.

The other, who had almost fallen, adjusted his chest plate, which was slightly askew from the force of the impact.

"Kriffing great oaf," the reg growled, turning his face towards Wrecker and no doubt glaring through the visor of his helmet. There was a republic symbol painted on one side, which seemed like a pretty stupid piece of decoration if you asked Wrecker.

Crosshair was by his side before he himself could even react, squaring up to the reg with his head high and shoulders drawn back.

"Say that again," his brother dared, tone dripping with venom.

The reg with the symbol tilted his head up at Crosshair, though he didn't back down. The blonde guy, Rex, hastily flanked his reg brother.

"Is there a problem here?" he barked, hauling off his helmet and fixing his sharp eyes on Crosshair.

Wrecker saw his grey haired brother's fists clench around the Firepuncher rifle. He shifted his weight, no doubt preparing for a fight. Before he could act or get any words out, however, Hunter moved to intercept, resting a hand on Crosshair's spaulder.

"No problem here," he said in his most diplomatic voice. Hunter was always the one to break up any disagreements. Or at least, to try and prevent any violence.

Crosshair tilted his visor towards their Sergeant. A few tense seconds passed before he rolled his shoulders, roughly shrugging Hunter off and going to stand in the corner of the hold. Captain Rex's eyes travelled between Hunter, to the reg, and then to Crosshair.

"That's what I thought," he said sternly, shoving his bucket back on and going to stand by the General, who rested one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his lightsaber.

"Enough!" the Jedi barked, eyes narrowed and a scowl on his face so potent that it could rival Crosshair's.

Everyone was silent after that, and even Wrecker (whose social skills were almost as bad as Tech's, according to Crosshair) could feel the tension hanging in the air. He couldn't tell where it came from or why, but he knew it was there.

The ship jerked again as it pitched lower. There was a grating sound as both gunners doors of the LA-AT slid open, revealing the planet below as they began their final descent to the surface. Wrecker gripped hold of the handrail and leaned forward to get a better look at the sight unfolding below them. It was dark, eerily so, the entire area shrouded in a purplish sort of haze. He could see the muzzle flare from the enemy flack guns in the distance, firing at the oncoming LA-ATs, and he felt an odd prickling at the back of his neck from whatever plasma charges they were using.

A shot rocked the LA-AT, and Wrecker held on tighter. It really was a kriffing long way down. His stomach lurched at the thought of falling that far. One of the ship's to their right abruptly burst into flames and pitched towards the surface as one of its engines was hit.

Suddenly, it all became too real. This was war. ACTUAL war. Not just a simulation. Wrecker could die. His brothers could die. Or be maimed so badly that decommissioning would be a blessing.

His stomach twisted, and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. He pulled back from the edge, flattening himself against the back wall of the gunship and gripping onto a bulkhead so hard his fingers hurt. Wrecker screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing because it felt like it was coming too fast.

"What's the matter?" came the voice of one of the regs. When Wrecker opened his eyes and turned his head to look, he saw that it was the ARC trooper that had spoken. "Scared of heights?"

His tone was teasing and not outright nasty, but Wrecker forced himself to straighten nonetheless.

"I ain't scared of nothing!" he boomed, hoping the tremor in his voice would be misinterpreted as anger.

The ARC trooper held up his hands in a placating gesture, as though afraid Wrecker might throw him bodily out of the ship.

"Easy, big guy. I'm only kidding."

Wrecker wasn't sure that was true or not, but decided not to push further. As long as the regs stayed out of his way, he'd stay out of theirs. Besides, Hunter had told them to behave, and he intended to. He didn't want to disappoint his oldest brother.

Another blast nearby, the sound of a dying engine as another ship went diving to its doom.

"There's a lot of surface fire!" the General exclaimed, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the engines and the heaving of the guns on the ground.

One of the regs chuckled, hefting the enormous laser cannon he carried. A pang of annoyance hit Wrecker, because he kriffing well wanted one of those guns. Maybe if the reg died, he could steal it off his body?

"Ha! They ain't got nothing we can't handle," the clone remarked.

Wrecker couldn't help but grin under his helmet. Maybe this little reg wasn't so bad.

The comm inside his helmet chirped, the call coming through on the open channel.

"General Skywalker," came a voice over the link, no doubt from the pilot, who sounded a little too panicky for comfort. "I've turned the lights out. Our night vision sensors are having a tough time in this chop. I hope we don't overshoot the landing site!"

"Just get us as close as you can!"

Wrecker watched as the ground came closer and closer. They couldn't be far from the drop zone now. His fingers fidgeted with his blaster. The thing felt too small in his hands. He would've felt much better with one of those gatling guns.

The reg Captain drew his pair of pistols and turned to address the rest of the group.

"Alright, boys," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Time to lock and load!"

...

Hunter was running as fast as he could while encumbered by about sixty pounds of armour.

Everything around him was chaos, all noise and plasma bolts and the smell of blaster residue, overwhelming his senses to the point that he could barely tell which way was up.

The gunship hadn't even touched down before the Jedi had leapt out, and they were suddenly boots on the ground, charging headlong into a barage of Umbaran fire. Hunter's heart was in his mouth, and he tried to squeeze off a few shots and watch his footing whilst also doing his best not to get killed. He stumbled over a patch of uneven ground and staggered, bumping into something in his disoriented state. A hand gripped his shoulder, and someone was pushing him, guiding him forward towards enemy lines.

Glancing behind him briefly, Hunter saw Tech hot on his tail, holding onto him tightly as he propelled him in the right direction. He was grateful for the contact, but chided himself internally for its necessity. He should be able to do this. He'd been training for his whole life to do this. He'd just never expected his heightened senses to be such a hindrance during a real battle.

An Umbaran fighter flew overhead and he instinctively ducked. Another followed cose behind, and Hunter barely heard someone shouting to take cover before an explosion took him off his feet.

He hit the ground hard, the wind driven from his lungs. His ears were ringing so much that they hurt, and his head was swimming.

Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, Hunter swung the visor of his helmet back and forth in desperation. Nearby, Tech was rolling to his feet, scrambling for his blaster and making his way over on wobbly legs.

Hunter rose dizzily, shaking his head in an effort to stop that incessant pounding against his ear drums. Another bomb blast nearby made the ground tremble and he stumbled, trying desperately to get his bearings. Where was everybody? Where were his brothers? Panic had a death grip around his throat, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Tech's helmet swam into view in front of him. He was crouching, head lowered and tilted in a way that expressed concern. The ground was hard against Hunter's knees. Why was he on the ground? When had he fallen? Tech was saying something, but he couldn't hear his words over the noise.

A hand hooked under Hunter's arm and he was dragged across the dirt. Some reflex born of years of bullying and battle training had him lashing out frantically, trying to dislodge whoever had him. But the person held firm, only eventually dropping him after several seconds. Hunter pushed himself up onto his knees, but a hand on his back stopped him from rising.

"Stay down, Hunter."

He heard the words through the brain fog, and the familiarity of the tone grounded him. Slowly sweeping his gaze around, he saw that he was crouched behind a pair of thick, twisted trees, which shielded him from the oncoming Umbaran fire. Tech was beside him, peering around the cover as he kept watch. Hunter shifted so that his back was pressed against one of the trunks, screwing his eyes shut. If he was braced against something solid, then maybe the spinning would stop.

He heard the sound of boots scraping against gravel and cracked an eye to see both Wrecker and Crosshair sliding behind cover to join them. Some of the tension in Hunter's shoulders dissipated at the sight of his brothers, safe and unharmed. His hands gripped his knee guards, and he clenched them into fists to hide the shaking. When had he lost his blaster? He couldn't remember.

"What's goin' on?" asked Wrecker, his voice strained and sounding far away.

"Hunter's senses are causing him some disorientation," explained Tech, cool and collected as always.

"This is a kriffing nightmare," muttered Crosshair under his breath, though not quiet enough for Hunter to miss it.

Hands enveloped his helmet and tugged the thing off. Hunter flinched as his clammy skin was exposed to the cool air. The helmet had acted as a kind of buffer against the outside world, and without it, the sounds were amplified, and the distinct stench of ozone and the faintest waft of blood was potent.

Twisting to one side, Hunter was violently sick on the ground. A narrow arm wrapped around his chest, and Crosshair held him tightly while he heaved, until there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up. Slumping back against the trees, he closed his eyes again so that he wouldn't have to look at his brothers and concentrated on his breathing.

The smells and sounds began to fade as the battle moved northwards, offering Hunter's senses some reprieve. It was only then, once the pounding in his skull lessened, that the utter mortification set in. He'd lost control in front of his brothers and behaved like a kriffing cadet on his first day of endurance training. Had any of the regs witnessed his breakdown, too? Or the Jedi? He'd heard rumours on Kamino of clones being decommissioned for such behaviour.

Hunter hastily pulled his helmet on to disguise the embarrassment that he was sure was written all over his face.

It took a few minutes for him to regain control of his senses, not fully, but enough that he didn't feel like he was going to pass out. Taking a few deep breaths, he moved to a kneeling position and squared his shoulders.

"We need to move," he said hoarsely. His throat was burning and he was desperately thirsty, but now was not the time to dig a canteen out of his pack. "Don't wanna get left behind."

Tech nodded, and Wrecker hoisted his blaster to signal his agreement. Crosshair paused, before removing his pistol from its holster and pressing it into Hunter's hand. Hunter nodded his thanks, steeling himself both physically and mentally. Then, he ducked out from behind the tree and headed for the Umbaran lines with grim determination.

...

Crosshair's hands shook violently as he held the Firepuncher to his body. Some vague part of his brain registered that he was in shock, but beyond that, his thoughts were a jumbled mess as he climbed down into the trench behind his brothers.

There were regs everywhere, the wounded huddled against the walls of the ditch, those able to stand keeping guard, peering into the darkness as if they could kriffing see a thing. Which, he knew for a fact they couldn't, because his own eyesight was far superior to that of any reg, and even he was having a hard time focusing on anything through the mirk and shadow.

The Umbaran's had routed, falling back to abandon the ridge, though Crosshair and his brothers had arrived at the very tail end of the fight, following the regs - more out of confusion than anything else - as they charged over the top. No one spared them a second look as they made their way through the trench, their novelty already having worn off. Hunter chose a spot apart from the other troopers, where the four of them collectively collapsed.

Crosshair drew his legs into his chest and cradled his rifle on his lap. The thing seemed to have grown heavier somehow, since they'd disembarked the gunship. His eyes travelled over the sleek barrel and he recoiled. How could he ever have thought it beautiful? It was merely a tool designed for one purpose, and one purpose alone.

Killing.

Crosshair had killed people. Had taken the lives of others, not training droids, but actual people, with families and purposes outside this kriffing war. And worse, through the scope of the damned rifle, he'd been up close and personal with death. He'd seen every shot connect (and they had all hit their marks, because he was the best, after all) seen men fall as his bolts ended their time in this realm in a split second. One fellow's skull had exploded from the force, shattering his helmet and sending a spray of viscera to spatter the trees behind him. Crosshair's stomach twisted, and for a moment he thought he might be as sick as Hunter had been earlier. His only consolation was that he had performed without hesitation. He knew that made him a good soldier, but what did it say about him as a human being?

Lurching to his feet, he steadied himself with a hand on the rock behind him.

"Where are you going?" asked Hunter, the only one of the other three who hadn't removed his helmet, most likely to protect his overstimulated senses as much as possible.

Crosshair hoisted the rifle over his shoulder. It really was unnaturally heavy.

"Nature calls."

It didn't, but he needed to be away from his brothers, away from everybody, because he was frightened of losing control in the presence of any witnesses.

Stumbling back down the trench, Crosshair kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He tried not to see the dead reg that he passed, or the other with a gaping hole in his chest, which a frenzied medic was attempting to close without much success. Aside from the groans and whimpers of the wounded, the air was still and oppressive with the promise of more violence. Crosshair headed towards a section of the ridge that looked to be less sparsely populated, or at the very least, more than a stone's throw from another living being. It was only then, once he was far enough away from prying eyes, that he finally allowed himself to break apart, just a little bit.

Sinking to his knees, Crosshair tugged off his helmet and took a deep, shuddering breath of the humid air. It tasted dirty, which he knew was just a part of his imagination, but which made him swallow down the bile rising up his throat, regardless. Leaning forward, he dug his fingers into the dirt to stop them from shaking. His lungs burned, and his breathing came in shallow pants that made everything swim around him. Crosshair screwed his eyes shut, but that only made things worse. The images of his kills became vivid behind the lids, as if they'd been burnt into his retinas for all eternity.

He gave his body and mind a few minutes to shudder and tremble and crumble before pulling everything back in and locking it away at the back of his mind. He was better than this. He could handle this.

Plucking his helmet off the ground, Crosshair stood and brushed himself off. Glancing around, he quickly double checked that none of the regs had gotten too close, before making his way back to the others.

He didn't get very far before he was accosted by a trooper. Crosshair halted as the fellow stepped in front of him, blocking his path. His mouth twisted, and he eyed the clone warily.

"What do you want?" he drawled, shifting his grip on the helmet propped on his hip. He was ready to throw it at the reg's face if necessary.

The man's eyes narrowed. Unless Crosshair was mistaken, this was the same ARC trooper that had been on the LA-AT with them. The one with the stupid number five tattooed on his stupid forehead. Crosshair couldn't remember his name, and he didn't much care to strain himself to at any rate.

"Captain Rex sent me to check in with your squad. Make sure none of you died."

His expression indicated that this was some kind of personal punishment. And that he was a bit disappointed that the latter statement hadn't occurred.

Crosshair sneered. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with this idiot.

"How touching."

"Hey!" the trooper barked. "Watch your tone."

"Or what?"

He knew there was no need to be so confrontational, but he felt particularly abrasive and more than a little embarrassed by his earlier breakdown.

The ARC trooper's scowl deepened, and he folded his arms across his chest.

"Where's the rest of your squad?" he asked, voice strained but not outright angry. Clearly, he wasn't going to rise to Crosshair's challenge.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. But like I said, Rex wanted me to check in with you, seeing as this is your first mission and all."

His tone was casually condescending, as was the slight quirk of his lips. Crosshair felt a ripple of anger run up his spine. The reg was insinuating that they needed babysitting. That they were incapable of surviving on their own. Which was stupid, because they'd been doing fine so far in their lives without any interference from the regs. He straightened his back, taking full advantage of the fact that he was several inches taller than baseline.

"We don't need any reg looking out for us," he snapped indignantly.

The trooper looked confused, as though trying to fathom whether or not he should be insulted by the nickname. Crosshair rolled his eyes and tried to step past the clone, but the trench was narrow, and the man refused to move aside. Panic tightened his chest. He kriffing hated being trapped.

"Get out of my way!"

The reg squared his shoulders.

"Or what?" he sneered in a mock imitation of Crosshair's earlier threat.

Crosshair blinked slowly, his anger turning to outright fury. He reached out a hand and shoved the bastard hard on the shoulder. The man went with the movement, before regaining his balance and pushing back, with enough force that Crosshair stumbled.

That was all it took. The idiot was kriffing well asking for it.

Crosshair drew back his fist and punched the reg squarly in the face.

The man recoiled, saving himself just before he hit the ground. Crosshair stepped forward, dropping his helmet and raising his arms to either strike again or defend. The reg lunged, barrelling into his midriff with enough force to drive the wind from his lungs and take them both off their feet. Crosshair landed heavily on his back, hitting his head hard and seeing stars.

The ARC trooper roared, straddling Crosshair's hips and pinning him with his bulk. Instinctively, he raised his arms to protect his face as the reg began pounding him. They'd both managed to get a few jabs in when the sound of yelling reached Crosshair's ears. He ignored it, because he didn't care for any reg that might try and break up the fight. The pair continued to scuffle and writhe in the dirt, each desperately trying to gain the upper hand.

The sound of gunfire rent the still air.