Crosshair quickly deduced that General Krell was an asshole.
They'd barely been marching an hour before he came to that conclusion. He should have seen it coming, he supposed, in hindsight. He'd spent most of his life surrounded by assholes, with the exception of his brothers (Crosshair didn't dwell too long on that thought, because it hurt like a kriffing vibro blade to the heart) so he should have been able to spot the signs. Perhaps it was exhaustion that dulled his perception, or perhaps he was concentrating too hard on his surroundings to pay much mind to the Jedi's attitude. But he was totally blindsided by the first blow.
"Captain," barked Krell from the front of the column, "send men to scout that ridge up ahead. We don't want an Umbaran ambush to catch us off guard."
The reg called Rex jogged alongside the besalisk, like a massiff pup following its master.
"Yes, Sir."
Even through the modulator in his helmet, his tone seemed grudging. Crosshair guessed the man wasn't used to taking orders from anyone other than his own Jedi.
Rex fell back to the rest of the battalion, helmet scanning the men.
"Fives, Jesse, Dogma, I want you to recon ahead. Keep your comms open and let me know if you see anything concerning."
The three regs peeled away and began trotting to the fore. The Captain did a last sweep of his men, before his visor fell on Crosshair.
"You," the clone said, pointing a finger. "Go with them."
Crosshair's eyes widened underneath his helmet, before drawing into a scowl. He did not like to be ordered about, least of all by this jumped up nerf herder.
"Why?" he asked suspiciously, his fingers tightening around the stock of his rifle.
The reg cocked his head to one side, coming to a halt, a hand on his hip.
"Because I am your commanding officer, and I said so." His tone was low, almost dangerous.
Crosshair stiffened further and squared up to the man. He didn't care that he was being insubordinate. What was the worst that would happen? A fight, either verbal or physical, seemed like a good outlet for all the hurt that was penned up inside him. And at worst case, decommissioning didn't seen like such a bad thing anymore anyway.
"You're nothing to me," Crosshair spat venemously. Some of the other clones had paused their marching to spectate.
The Captain didn't immediately rise to the challenge. Instead he sighed softly, and tilted his visor downwards.
"Maybe," he said tiredly, "but I'm all you've got right now."
Crosshair blinked stupidly beneath his helmet, thrown off guard by the response, which sent an unexpected, sharp pain to his chest. His gut told him to lash put, but his feet wouldn't move, and he couldn't seem to form a comeback worthy of obliterating the reg.
As he was floundering, the sound of heavy footsteps approached.
"CT-7567," came Krell's guttural boom. "Is there a problem? Or do you enjoy dawdling?"
Crosshair found the sterile way the General addressed the reg to be surprising. He thought the Jedi fawned over the regs. They were always getting special treatment after all, while Crosshair and his brothers were kept in the enormous shadow cast by the ordinary clones. The ones without imperfections, that lived up to their creators' expectations.
To witness one of those golden boys be spoken to so unfeelingly threw him for a loop.
Captain Rex stiffened almost imperceptibly. If it wasn't for Crosshair's sharp eyesight, he doubted he would have noticed the way the man's shoulders drew back, or his fingers fluttered into a fist.
"No problem here, Sir," Rex replied levelly, gaze still not leaving Crosshair. "I was just arranging the reconnaissance party, as you asked."
Krell harrumphed and his yellow eyes narrowed. That piercing scrutiny then, unfortunately, turned to Crosshair.
"Why is this clone not wearing standard armour?" he barked, folding a pair of his arms and flexing an impressive set of muscles.
Irritation pricked Crosshair's skin and he was just opening his mouth to dish out a sarcastic remark when the Captain stepped into the breach.
"He's from an...experimental unit...Sir."
The besalisk squinted even harder and took a step closer, until he had breached the unspoken boundaries of personal space and towered over Crosshair. The notion of being looked down upon (in the physical sense, because he was accustomed to receiving a great deal of snubbing with regards to attitude) was foreign to Crosshair, as there were not many taller than himself.
"An experimental unit? Why was I not informed of this?"
"Well, Sir, his squad was assigned to the battalion prior to your arrival."
The Jedi leaned in ever closer, and Crosshair suppressed the desire to take a step back.
"And where is the rest of your squad, clone?" growled the Jedi.
Crosshair's chest tightened so much he almost couldn't breathe. He wanted to lash out or scream or shoot something, but instead, all he could do was stand numbly, trying his utmost to deal with the sudden unexpected surge of pain that the question brought. He opened his mouth to reply, but it felt as though an iron fist was clamped around his throat, and no sound came out.
The besalisk leaned back, fixing his hands on his hips and tilting his chin so it was even more apparent that he was looking down at the clones.
"Well? Answer me, clone!"
Dead, Crosshair thought to himself, they're kriffing dead. He'd abandoned them, left them on that ridge and not even gone back to look for their remains. Angry tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and he blinked them away, refusing to let them fall and silently thanking the Gods, the Maker or whichever deity ruled over this Hell hole that he was still wearing his helmet.
Again, his voice deserted him. Again, that kriffing reg Captain stepped in.
"They, err, didn't make it, Sir," he said with convincingly feigned melancholy.
Krell's eyes were empty and totally devoid of all emotion, save for a spark of anger that seemed to reside there permanently. His wide mouth twisted into an unpleasant sneer.
"Perhaps that is for the best," he said with a sickeningly amount of nonchalance. "In war, the weak die and the strong survive, and an army marches at the pace of its slowest man. Better they perish now than burden the rest of the battalion with their inadequacies."
It took a few moments for the Jedi's words to sink in, and when they did, Crosshair was still not certain he'd heard correctly. A cold kind of fury coursed its way through his veins, and he drew himself up to his full height.
"My brothers were not weak," he spat venemously, teeth bared in a silent snarl.
The besalisk's flabby lips curled up into something that resembled a smile, but which contained no warmth.
"How dare you speak to me with such insubordination," he hissed through his fangs. "What is your CT number?"
Crosshair's whole body was trembling, and his breathing came in heavy pants that made his head swim. He stood, rigid and rooted to the spot, and ready to fight as soon as he became able to move his limbs again.
"My NAME," he growled fiercely, "is CROSSHAIR."
His name. The one his brothers had given him, because he was more than just a number to them.
That was, apparently, the wrong answer to give, judging by the look of disgust that crossed the General's sagging face. He puffed out his chest, one hand reaching for his lightsaber. It suddenly occurred to Crosshair that the Jedi might actually kill him, but he wasn't sure he cared.
One of the besalisk's huge paws had wrapped around the hilt of his weapon when Captain Rex suddenly moved to put himself between the pair. Crosshair started in shock. That was a surprising move, because no reg had ever put themselves in harms way for him before. And the look on Krell's face left little doubt that he wanted to cause some harm.
"General, I apologise for this trooper's insubordination," he said quickly, holding up a placating hand towards the Jedi. "He's new to the ranks. Please, Sir, leave it to me, and I'll make sure he's disciplined appropriately."
Crosshair snorted inside his helmet. He'd like to see the reg try and discipline him. And besides, the idiot was spoiling his fun. He wanted a fight, wanted to be beaten to a pulp, quite honestly, because if he was in physical pain, that might at least provide a distraction from the unseen agony writhing in his chest.
He took a step closer to the General, only for the Captain to elbow him sharply in the ribs, not enough to actually hurt underneath his armour, but enough to shock him into pausing his advance.
Krell's face went slack, and he abruptly turned on his heel and made his way back towards the head of the column.
"See to it that he is," he called over his shoulder, shoving his way through a gaggle of clones that had gathered to survey the spectacle.
Crosshair watched the Jedi leave, an odd feeling rippling over him. He wasn't sure if it was regret or relief that Krell hadn't knocked him on his ass. Rex waited for the General to move far enough away to be out of earshot, before rounding on Crosshair.
"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" he hissed in an angry growl.
Crosshair folded his arms sulkily and shrugged his shoulders.
"Why do you care?" he spat, that awful tension knotting his insides again.
To his surprise, the Captain reached up and tugged off his own helmet. His mouth was a thin line, but his eyes were surprisingly soft.
"Because you are my responsibility. And I don't want to see you get yourself killed by acting like a kriffing idiot and carrying on with whatever suicidal rampage you seem Hells bent on instigating."
Crosshair physically recoiled at the seemingly genuine concern projecting from the man. He didn't want that, and he certainly didn't need it.
"Does it matter? I'm just another kriffing number, after all."
Rex's eyes went wide for the briefest moment, before narrowing into a scowl.
"Not to me."
This felt wrong, as though he'd stumbled into a trap that was about to spring shut any second. The Captain eyed him for another minute, before wedging his helmet back on his head.
"Now, I want you with the recon team, Crosshair. I'm sure they could use someone with your particular skillset."
Crosshair wasn't sure whether it was the man's use of his name, the obvious recognition of his abilities, or the desire to get the kriff away from all the staring regs, but somehow, he found himself trotting after the scouting squad. He was ashamed by how quickly he complied, but hastily placated himself with the thought that he might soon get the chance to shoot some more Umbaran's. Or, at the very least, start a fight with one of the regs. And that was something.
...
Hunter paused beside a broken piece of foliage and ran his fingers over the crumpled frond.
Tracking the battalion was proving to be far easier than he had initially expected. The sheer volume of booted feet traversing the terrain left a clear and obvious trail, and he was thankful that he didn't have to overly strain his senses. His head was still pounding, and his shoulder throbbed painfully, but he was at least faring much better than Wrecker, who lumbered along behind, half supported by Tech and groaning loudly every few paces.
"Urg," the larger brother grunted as he drew closer to where Hunter was crouched. "My kriffing head hurts."
As if to reiterate his point, he placed a hand to the front of his helmet.
"I have given you a more than adequate dose of painkillers," stated Tech, sounding exasperated through the modulator in his helmet. "Even taking into consideration your size and overly active metabolism."
"Yeah, well, I need some more."
"If I give you any more, you will be unable to walk."
Hunter stood and suppressed a sigh, glancing back at his brothers and shifting his feet. The battalion had a two hour headstart, at least, and they were moving desperately slowly. If they didn't pick up the pace, then this whole war might be over before they kriffing well caught up.
Wrecker moaned again, shuffling over to where Hunter stood and folding himself to sit on a boulder.
"Need a minute," he huffed, pulling off his helmet and placing it beside him.
Hunter pursed his lips and suppressed a sigh. He knew that Wrecker wasn't being deliberately slow, but they couldn't afford to keep stopping to rest every half an hour. Glancing at the bacta patch on his brother's forehead, Hunter immediately felt guilty for such a selfish thought. Wrecker hadn't asked to be injured, and he was forcing the man to move much faster than he was comfortable with in his current condition.
Letting out a long breath, Hunter squatted on the ground once again, hanging his head and resting his elbows on his knees. This whole situation was once massive karked up nightmare, and he didn't know how to get them all out of it. Crosshair was gone, Wrecker was wounded, and they were trailing along behind the rest of the battalion because it was the only thing Hunter could think of to do. Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he sorely wished he'd never been made squad Sergeant. He wasn't a very good leader, a fact that this mission had proved at least a dozen times over already. Tech would have been a much better choice. He was smart and capable and always calm in a situation, no matter how scary or difficult things got.
Hunter's chest tightened. He was utterly miserable, but he had no choice but to force down the self-pity and soldier on.
"Five minutes, then we move out," he said flatly, too tired to try and convince the team to limp on for another mile or so.
Tech moved closer to perch neatly on the edge of a fallen log.
"Hunter, how is your disorientation?" he asked, doing his best to sound casual but failing to fully mask the concern in his voice.
"I'm fine, Tech."
Hunter didn't miss the look his two brothers shared.
"Are you certain? Because you appear to be in some distress."
"I said, I'm fine."
Hunter didn't mean to snap, but he was tired and worried in equal measure, and he really did not need Tech to start picking him apart like he was a complex calculation. But the way his brother's shoulders sagged and his gaze drifted to the floor sent guilty daggers stabbing into his heart. He knew Tech really was concerned, and that he wasn't trying to pry.
"I'm just tired, Tech," Hunter said by way of apology. "And worried about Cross."
His brother nodded sagely.
"I understand. But I am certain that Crosshair is alive and well. We have seen no evidence to suggest otherwise."
"Yeah," added Wrecker, who had been carefully watching the exchange with huge eyes. He always hated it whenever there was any unrest or tension between his brothers. "Crosshair's the toughest outta all of us."
Hunter nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. Crosshair was an abrasive, sarcastic, moody asshole, but he was still their brother, and Hunter loved him regardless. The thought of anything happening to him made Hunter feel sick. He was supposed to keep them all safe, dammit! Safe and together, and instead, it had all fallen apart like a house of cards.
He rose to his feet and angrily kicked a stone, which skittered off into the undergrowth. He hated this feeling of being so out of control. It was a familiar feeling, seeing as they were property of the Republic, just more numbers on a page, with no real control over their own lives. But somehow, in this context and situation, it was painfully foreign.
Tech and Wrecker watched Hunter's rare display emotion, a mixture of concern and genuine pity on their faces. Abruptly, the latter rose to his feet, scooping up his helmet and shoving it gingerly onto his head.
"Let's get moving," he said in a falsely bright tone.
Hunter eyed his larger brother warily.
"You can have another couple of minutes, Wreck," he said slowly. Another few minutes really wouldn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things, after all.
Wrecker shrugged and picked up his blaster.
"Nah. Bacta's working already. I feel loads better."
Hunter's knees nearly buckled as Wrecker clapped a hand on his shoulder. It sent a jolt of pain up his aching arm, but he didn't mind. He was just grateful for the unspoken display of support. He shared a hasty look with Tech, before jogging after Wrecker, who was striding off into the distance with a fierce determination.
His brothers were right. Crosshair was alive, and one way or another, they would kriffing well find him. Or die trying.