Crosshair sat on the ground, back braced against the twisted trunk of a tree and head bowed over his legs, which he'd drawn protectively into his body.

He felt alone, despite being surrounded by regs as they tended their wounds and reassessed their ammo situation. Everything was wrong. His body wasn't his own, as if he were watching someone else field strip and clean the Firepuncher with shaking hands.

The ARC trooper and the reg with the jaig eyes on his helmet were watching him nearby. After tackling him to the ground, the Captain had given Crosshair a few short, sharp words about behaving appropriately, followed by something that resembled an apology for his missing brothers. Even the Jedi who - from the looks he had been directing towards Crosshair up until this point - clearly hated him, had been exceptionally lenient towards the fact that he was acting like an unruly and insubordinate asshole.

They pitied him, and he hated it.

He didn't need their pity. He just needed them all to kriff off and stay out of is way so that he could kill some more Umbarans. That might go a little way towards dousing the turmoil that was roiling in his heart.

Crosshair glanced at the horizon, but they had moved too far from the blast zone for even his exceptional eyes to see the glow of the fires that surely still raged in the trenches. It irked him deeply that the regs hadn't even paused long enough to bury the dead, but he supposed there were so many of them that it would have been a considerable task. Besides, the flames would do a good enough job of disposing of the remains of the fallen.

He was just snapping the sight back onto his rifle when the stupid ARC trooper approached him. Crosshair tensed unconsciously, readying at least half a dozen quick insults to fire off in rapid succession if the reg tried to say something sympathetic to him.

"Nice rifle," the man said, squatting down beside him and watching as he fitted the final pieces of the weapon together.

Crosshair gave the Firepuncher one last look over before setting it on the ground beside his pack.

"Better than the bantha crap they issue you regs with," he drawled, leaning his head back against the trunk.

The trooper didn't rise to the bait, which was disappointing because Crosshair sorely wanted to punch him in the face again, even though his hand still throbbed from the last time he'd tried that. Instead, the man drew one of his own pistols and turned it over in his hands.

"Hmm," he grunted, "think I prefer my pistols anyway."

Crosshair snorted and directed his gaze to the middle distance so that he wouldn't have to look at the reg. He wasn't sure if his eyes were still red from his earlier emotional outburst, and he hoped no one would notice if they were in the dim light of the planet.

"You would," he quipped sarcastically. He really was past the point of caring about hurting anyone's feelings, least of all this stupid ARC trooper that seemed to be everywhere he turned at the moment.

To Crosshair's utter annoyance, the idiot didn't seem to read into his tone, which clearly implied that he just wanted to be left alone. Instead, the man hummed in what could only be described as amusement.

"Why's that?"

Crosshair let his gaze dart over to the reg, before returning it to the spot in the distance he had chosen to burden with the weight of his glare.

"Because it doesn't involve any skill to shoot one of those things."

The reg actually LAUGHED! Crosshair had to fight to keep the surprise off his face.

"Guess not," he trooper said with a shrug. His brown eyes travelled back over the Firepuncher again, and he cocked a brow. "You must be pretty good if they issued you with one of those."

Crosshair plastered a smirk on his face, even though inside he didn't feel anything at all. It was easier to cope with everything if he didn't let the arrogant veneer slip again. It was his own personal armour, more effective than the plastoid he wore at keeping anything that might hurt him at bay.

"The best."

The ARC trooper's lip quirked upwards. Was he amused? Or was that an expression of condescension?

Either way, it was kriffing annoying.

"What do you want?" Crosshair asked, eager to get this awkward encounter over with.

A fleeting look of something that looked dangerously close to concern flitted across the clone's face.

"We're moving out in ten minutes," he said, brushing at a dirty mark on his kama. "Might wanna make sure you're hydrated and comfortable for a long march."

Crosshair rolled his eyes and scoffed. He didn't care about being comfortable. He didn't deserve to be comfortable. If anything, he deserved to be as uncomfortable as possible. At least some of the guilt at abandoning his brothers might dissipate. He flexed his hand, the one on which he suspected he'd broken something punching the ARC trooper in the jaw. It hurt like Hell, but he liked the pain.

The reg studied his face for a moment before sighing and rising to his feet. He took a few steps towards where the rest of the battalion was gathered, before pausing.

"For what it's worth," he said, pointedly not looking over his shoulder at Crosshair. "I'm sorry about your brothers."

With that, he was gone, leaving Crosshair to quietly suffer his pain alone.

...

There was a persistent ringing in Tech's ears when he finally regained consciousness.

The visor screen of his helmet was cracked, the HUD display flickering, though fortunately, his spectacles seemed to be intact. He blinked several times, before realising that a great deal of the distortion appeared to be inside his own head. Pushing himself to his knees, Tech shook himself to try and dispel the buzzing in his ears, and when that did not work, he pulled off his helmet and tossed it to the ground.

The smell of char sat heavy in his nostrils as he took a deep breath. Aside from the perpetual humming, the only sound he could hear was the crackling of flames. Something was burning, he concluded, as he struggled to regain some sort of control over his senses. That would account for the smells and the sounds and the relentless heat that licked at his skin beneath his armour and body glove.

With a shudder, Tech desperately tried to piece together the moments before he'd woken. They were running through the trenches. Hunter had told them to vacate the dugout, and after that, he recalled an odd feeling of weightlessness, and then he was opening his eyes. Clearly, there was some lost time between the earlier and later events of that sequence. There was also the factor of his missing brothers to consider, because Tech was certain that both Hunter and Wrecker had been by his side before everything went dark.

Tech didn't panic, at least not right away, because he knew that was a senseless reaction that wouldn't actually serve much of a purpose aside from elevating his heart rate and agitating any wounds he might have. Pushing himself further upright, he rolled back to sit on his feet and lifted his head to survey his surroundings.

He was crouched in the dirt on the hillside, surrounded by chunks of rock, lumps of scorched timber, and other debris. Behind him, flames lapped at the ground and cast long shadows over the ruined earth. Nearby was the unmistakable form of Wrecker, lying on his back on the ground with his helmet askew. Hunter sat by his side, hovering uncertainly, eyes wide and fearful in the half light.

As Tech stirred, his oldest brother's head snapped around to face him.

"Tech?" he called hoarsely, his voice strained and trembling. "Tech, are you hurt?"

Tech scooped up his helmet and shakily made his way over to his two brothers.

"I believe I have a concussion," he stated as he lowered himself to sit beside Hunter. "But other than that, my injuries appear to be superficial."

Hunter nodded, wincing at the movement, his eyes drawing back to Wrecker once again.

"I can't wake him up," he said with barely concealed panic.

Wrecker's chest rose and fell slowly, the only indication that he was still alive. Tech felt a fluttering of fear in his stomach, but he pushed it down because it was imperative that he should remain rational in this moment. Particularly as Hunter seemed to be having a hard time coping with their current situation.

"We should remove his helmet," Tech said calmly, "so as to best assess his injuries."

Hunter nodded, leaning forward to carefully remove the piece of armour. Wrecker's eyes were closed and his expression was peaceful. Tech might have believed that he was merely sleeping, save for the fact that there was a large gash on the side of his brother's head. Blood ran down his face to soak into the dirt, and a bruise was already beginning to form around the wound.

Hunter swallowed loudly and wiped his lips with the back of a trembling hand. No doubt the smell of blood was far more nauseating to him than it was to Tech.

Tech peered at the cut, determining that it was not deep enough for there to be any risk of a skull fracture. He wasn't a medic by any means, but he did possess a basic understanding of human anatomy, and that was usually enough to allow him to treat any of the various injuries his brothers sustained with a passable amount of skill.

"Where is the rest of the battalion?" he asked as he rummaged in one of his belt pouches for his first aid kit. He hoped that idle conversation might settle Hunter's nerves a little.

Tech's attempt apparently worked, judging by the way Hunter's stance relaxed fractionally.

"Gone," his brother said with a shake of his head.

"And Crosshair?"

"We have to assume that he left with the rest of the regs."

Tech paused, cocking his head in thought, before continuing to apply a bacta patch to Wrecker's head.

"I do not believe Crosshair would abandon us," he said with conviction. For all his faults (and there were many), Crosshair possessed a sense of loyalty which bordered on fanatical at times.

Hunter shrugged one shoulder and sighed loudly.

"He probably thinks we're dead."

Tech finished adhering the patch, before glancing about at the carnage around them.

"That is a fair assumption."

Hunter grunted in agreement, shifting his weight slightly and wincing. It was only then that Tech noticed that he was cradling his right arm in his lap.

"Hunter, you are wounded."

"I'm fine, Tech."

"I disagree. I suspect from the way you are favouring that arm, that it is either broken or dislocated."

His brother's gaze darted briefly to the side.

"It doesn't hurt too badly."

Tech repressed a sigh and arched an eyebrow at Hunter.

"Perhaps, but you will be unable to proceed without treatment."

Hunter opened his mouth to argue, but Tech swiftly distracted him by holding up a hand.

"You must take care of yourself if you are to take care of others."

It was a true statement, but something Hunter often forgot. The Sergeant pursed his lips before finally conceding with a nod. Tech moved closer to the man, gently lifting his arm with as much tenderness as he could muster.

"As I suspected. It is a partial subluxation of the humerus."

"Is that bad?"

"It is not ideal, but I can swiftly remedy it."

"Great, just tell me what- KRIFFING KARKING SITH SPIT, TECH!!"

Tech internally chastised himself for not providing his brother with appropriate warning as he firmly grasped his upper arm and jerked the socket back into place. But he had learnt from experience when treating Wrecker's various injuries in the past that it was always best to act swiftly and with minimal build-up.

Hunter's chest heaved as the shock and pain finally abated. Tech took the opportunity of his distraction to jab a hyperdermic pain killer into his neck, again, with zero discussion. The pain killer was only partially to alleviate the physical discomfort. Mostly, Tech hoped that it might help his brother calm down.

Busying himself with forming a makeshift sling out of a length of bandage, Tech shot Hunter a hasty side eye.

"What is our proposed course of action?" he asked confidently, hoping that his tone would reiterate to Hunter that he trusted him to lead them out of this predicament.

Hunter took another deep breath, sheepishly rolling his shoulder and fixing his eyes on Wrecker's still unconscious form.

"We wait for Wrecker to heal well enough to move. Then we go after Cross and the rest of the regs."

Tech nodded in agreement, privately hoping that there was still a brother and a battalion left to find.

...

Something was agitating the regs.

Crosshair could tell by the way that they began nervously converging on where the Captain and Skywalker waited at the edge of the clearing. He watched them as they went from casual and relaxed to poised and ready to fight or die in the space of a heartbeat. Perhaps the Umbaran's had regrouped? Perhaps the killing was about to start again? Crosshair didn't really care much if it did. He couldn't really summon the enthusiasm to care much about anything anymore.

Moments later, the sound of an engine could be heard on the breeze, and a pinprick of light on the horizon began to grow larger and larger as a gunship approached. He watched as the LA-AT set down a short distance away from the General and the clones. Some part of his consciousness nagged at him to move, to see what all the commotion was about, lest he be left behind. Crosshair didn't want to move. He wanted to curl into a ball under this kriffing tree and wait for it all to be over.

But, despite everything, he still retained a modicum of self-preservation, and so he rose to his feet, shoved his helmet onto his head, and joined the rest of the regs.

Positioning himself just on the outskirts of the cluster, his height offered him the advantage of being able to spectate the goings on. A huge, hulking besalisk had disembarked the gunship and was speaking to the General, who appeared quite perturbed.

"I can't just leave my men," the man stated in an indignant tone, gesturing over his shoulder at the gathered clones. Crosshair felt a pang of annoyance at the words. He didn't belong to anyone, least of all this arrogant show off.

The besalisk folded a pair of his arms and tilted his chin in what appeared to be a condescending gesture.

"I will be taking over in the interim," he said, voice booming and broaching no nonsense.

Crosshair's eyes widened beneath his helmet. The besalisk was a Jedi? Why was Skywalker being relieved? That seemed highly unusual, but he supposed that he didn't have much of a frame of reference.

Skywalker still seemed agitated by the sudden appearance of the other Jedi, and even in the gloom, Crosshair could see his brows drawn down into a scowl. It was only when the blonde clone stepped in that his expression finally changed.

"Don't worry about a thing, Sir," said the reg with a confidence that was bordering on cocky. "We'll have this city under Republic control by the time you get back."

Skywalker glanced at the clone, before turning back to the besalisk.

"Master Krell, this is Rex, my first in command. You won't find a finer and more loyal trooper anywhere."

Crosshair rolled his eyes under his helmet. A reg was a reg after all, and he couldn't imagine that one in particular was much better than the rest.

"Good to hear," replied the besalisk - Krell - with a nod of his saggy head. "I wish you well, Skywalker."

With that, the young Jedi was gone, stepping onto the gunship and gazing down at the battalion as it sped off into the Umbaran sky. There was a heavy pause, which lasted several seconds, before the clone called Rex stepped alongside Krell.

"Your reputation precedes you, General," he said in the sort of sycophantic tone that made Crosshair hate the guy even more. "It is an honour to be serving you."

The besalisk grunted in amusement.

"I find it very interesting, Captain, that you are able to recognise the value of honour. For a clone."

The atmosphere somehow became heavier. Crosshair watched the scene with an avid fascination. The reg Captain blinked slowly, looking like he'd been hit over the head with a shock baton. It was an entertaining expression, and one which almost made Crosshair forget how awful everything was right now.

"Stand at attention when I address you," barked Krell, rounding on the clone and squinting menacingly. "Your flattery is duly noted, but it will not be rewarded. There is a reason my command is so effective, and it's because I do things by the book. That includes protocol."

The besalisk took a few steps through the ranks, glaring menacingly at the regs. Crosshair thought that this Jedi might not be that bad, after all. Anyone who thought little of the regs was alright in his books.

The General paused by the ARC trooper with the five tattooed on his head and glared down at the man with a venom that Crosshair had only seen before when looking in a mirror. To his surprise, the trooper met that gaze levelly, almost defiantly, which he supposed was brave, if more than a little stupid. Crosshair snorted underneath his helmet, the beginnings of a grudging respect beginning to form for the reg.

Krell straightened his back and clasped both pairs of arms behind his back.

"Have all platoons ready to move out immediately."

With that, he marched off, leaving the regs looking possitively flummoxed, and Crosshair to quietly question what the change in command meant for him.