Hunter stood stiffly at parade rest inside the office of Kal Skirata.
He was scared. Really scared in fact. He knew he wasn't supposed to be, that such a reaction was undesirable in a clone. But he was. He clenched his fists behind his back in the hopes that no one would see the tremor in his hands. For once, he was glad that he was the one with heightened senses. At least none of the others would be able to hear his vigorous heartbeat, or smell the faint tang of sweat that prickled his skin.
It did, however, mean that Hunter was acutely aware of just how nervous the rest of his squad mates were. And that did absolutely nothing to quell his own anxiety.
He could hear Tech's foot tapping uncontrollably on the floor. It almost sounded like his brother was dancing, the sound echoing through the room in a disjointed staccato rhythm. An irritating tick that only ever made an appearance when he was subjected to immensely stressful situations. Such as being hauled unceremoniously before one of Kamino's most impressive trainers.
Wrecker was less subtle in expressing his unease. The giant of a man fidgeted constantly, straightening his back, then slouching, then shuffling his feet on the deck, then rolling his shoulders.
Glancing across at Crosshair, Hunter noticed his eyes darting almost frantically about, as if he were expecting an ambush. Hunter's stomach knotted at the thought. Was this some sort of test? Or had they been lured here under false pretences by some of the normal clones? Regs, Crosshair called them, often to their faces, resulting in more than one brawl and a series of grudges that made it perilous to step outside their own barracks some days. The regs could be quite cruel if their pride was dented, and Hunter really wouldn't put it past them to set an elaborate trap just to try and settle the score.
Still, both options were preferable to the other possible reason for their summons.
Decommissioning.
Hunter and his brothers had been narrowly avoiding that fate from the moment they were dragged from their tubes. They were 'defective' in the eyes of the Kaminoans, not only because they did not look the same as the other clones, and not even because of their varying mutations. They were just inherently different. A bad batch. And being different on Kamino could be damning.
When he was much younger, Hunter had hated the fact that he was not the same. He'd never asked to be made this way. He - along with his brothers - was little more than a glorified science experiment, poked and prodded and studied until there was not an inch of him that had not been explored, nor a single aspect of his personality that remained private.
But once he'd reached his teens, once he'd begun training - properly training - Hunter had quickly realised one thing.
He was better than the regs. They all were.
It wasn't blind arrogance or the cockiness of youth either. There was proof. Wrecker's ability to clear the whole training suite of droids in less than a minute, or Tech's penchant for solving complex calculations in his head when others would struggle even with access to a data pad. The fact that Crosshair could hit the smallest of targets from literal MILES away without missing, or he himself could identify how many enemies were in a pitch-black room, pinpointing their locations merely from the sound of their heartbeats. It was there for any person to see. Cold, hard proof of their competence.
And yet, even though their performance was well above average, they still had not been cleared for duty. The other squads had come and gone, but Hunter and his brothers remained. They had long since passed the age by which most clones had already had their first taste of battle. It was almost embarrassing.
Hunter straightened his back and cast a quick look over his training uniform to make sure there were no dirty marks on the fabric. He wasn't usually so fussy with the way he looked, but if the prospect of decommissioning was on the table, he wasn't prepared to take any chances. Running a hand through his hair, he did his best to flatten the more unruly bits. He tried, he really did, to keep it at regulation length, but it grew so damned fast that within a couple of days of cutting it he was back to having the appearance of a Wookie.
Hunter often considered Wrecker lucky for the fact that he was bald. Not that he ever voiced that sentiment. His larger brother was extremely self-conscious of the fact that the blast that had ruined his eye and left his face severely scarred had also singed away most of the hair on his head. Hunter thought back to that fateful day, when one of Wrecker's training exercises had gone seriously wrong, the resulting explosion throwing him clear across the room. Hunter wasn't sure he'd ever been so scared in his entire short life as he was at the sight of the giant sprawled on the floor, bleeding and burned. Even the normally unflappable Crosshair had looked panicked at the scene.
Blinking away that unpleasant memory, Hunter quickly scanned his brothers to make sure they were respectable. Or, at the very least, clean. He was the oldest, after all (even if only by mere minutes, as Crosshair repeatedly reminded him whenever the opportunity arose) and ever since he could remember, Hunter had taken responsibility for looking out for the others. It was a burden, but one that he was, nonetheless, happy to bear alone.
Adjusting his stance once again, Hunter wondered (for perhaps the hundredth time in the half-hour since they'd received the summons to Skirata's office) what the Hell was going on.
As if to voice his thoughts, Wrecker sighed loudly, scratching one of the scars that webbed its way across his face.
"How much longer do we wait?" he asked, glancing hopefully at the door.
Hunter shrugged vaguely, though he too was aware of the minutes ticking by.
"Until the Master Chief gets here," he replied firmly.
"IF it was even Skirata that sent the message," added Crosshair cynically.
Trust Crosshair to be the most paranoid. In fairness, he'd probably had it worse than some of the others in their days as young cadets, granted, his slight stature making him an easy target for bullies. Even once they'd hit puberty and the grey-haired clone had grown to be far taller than his tormentors, that suspicion and fear of weakness had been so deep-rooted that Crosshair had never managed to shake it.
Tech stopped his incessant tapping to adjust the goggles covering half his face. Another flaw that the trainers and Kaminoans often brought attention to. But the man was practically blind without them.
"Are you certain that the message did indeed come from Master Chief Skirata?" asked Tech, his wariness hidden just beneath the surface.
Hunter took a deep breath. No, he was not certain. But he did not have a choice but to comply. Disobedience was a punishable offense, and they did not need any more black marks on their records. For all intents and purposes, they were still cadets and therefore expendable. It wouldn't take much for the long necks to decide that they were a failed project and have them all put to sleep like rabid massiffs.
Maker, he hated it here.
At least the summons had come from Skirata, one of the more pleasant trainers that Kamino had to offer (if gruff and unyielding could be called pleasant). The man had never gone out of his way to make life harder for the squad of defective clones. And that was something. If they were going to be decommissioned, Hunter would much rather hear the news coming from him.
The sound of the door behind them sliding open had Hunter flinching unconsciously. He refrained from twisting around to see who had entered. He didn't need to. The solitary heartbeat was enough to tell him that this was a legitimate summons and not a nasty prank by the latest group of regs that seemed disgusted by their very existence.
Kal Skirata strode into the room importantly, brushing past the assembled clones and heading towards his desk without sparing them a glance. Hunter stiffened and sensed that his brothers did the same. The Mandalorian took a seat, and it was only once he'd settled himself that he lifted his gaze to survey the four men.
"I apologise for my tardiness," he said briskly, resting his forearms on the desk and steepling his fingers. His blue eyes roved over the squad and he arched an eyebrow in barely concealed amusement. "At ease."
Hunter paused for a few seconds, before forcing himself to relax. The others did the same, though Crosshair still seemed poised to either run or fight at a moment's notice.
Skirata leaned forward in his seat and fixed his sharp gaze on each member of the group individually. Hunter maintained eye contact when it was his turn, despite the fact that the scrutiny was extremely intimidating. Though average in size and build, Skirata exuded a presence that often had some of the younger cadets quaking. It was the eyes, Hunter concluded, which were not cold, per se, but promised a boot up the ass if you stepped too far over the line. And the gold beskar he wore left no doubt that he was a formidable opponent. That stuff was expensive. Beautiful, but expensive. Hunter could only wish for armour half as good as that one day.
"I suppose you must be wondering why I ordered you to come here," the Mandalorian said, a statement more than a question.
Hunter wanted to glance at the others, but refrained, instead fixing his eyes on a spot halfway up the far wall.
"Yessir."
"Well, I'll cut straight to it. You have been deemed battle ready and cleared for active duty."
Hunter blinked slowly. He couldn't have heard that right. The power buzzing through the overhead light fixtures must have messed with his hearing.
"Sir?" he asked, hoping the man would repeat himself and not lose his temper.
Skirata studied them for another moment before reaching into his desk drawer and extracting a data pad.
"I have watched your progress closely for some time, and I feel that it would be a detriment to the GAR for you to remain on Kamino indefinitely," he said, his lips quirking up at the corners. "Despite what the long necks think."
Hunter's eyes widened slightly at the comment. He'd never once heard any of their trainers criticise the beings that had created them. His shock was rapidly overtaken when the meaning of Skirata's words finally sunk in.
"We're leaving Kamino?" he asked before he could stop himself, adding a hasty 'Sir' at the end. Glancing at the others, Hunter was pleased to see that he was not the only one expressing surprise.
Skirata flicked through the pad, before lifting his eyes to survey Hunter through his lashes.
"Yes. That is what 'battle ready' usually means. Ain't gonna find any battles 'round here. Not since security was tightened following the siege anyways."
Hunter opened and closed his mouth, butterflies the size of bats pattering against his insides. They were being commissioned? After all these years, they were finally being allowed to put their skills to practical use? Hunter didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry.
Skirata set down the data pad and slid it along the desk towards Hunter.
"You will report promptly to the armoury to retrieve your kit. The mission briefing is on that pad. You will depart at 0700 tomorrow. You have been assigned a shuttle, which will be waiting for you in bay 4-12."
Hunter hastily reached out to pick up the pad, hands fumbling in his eagerness. He could practically hear the ears of the others perking up at the mention of kit and their own ship. Skirata almost seemed amused by their enthusiasm.
"CT-9902?"
Hunter bristled, standing up a little taller.
"Yessir?"
"You have been selected as the squad's Sergeant."
Sergeant? He was going to receive rank? This was surreal. Was he dreaming? He actually pinched himself, just to check.
"Any questions?" Skirata asked, then when no one spoke up, he continued. "Good. I will let you take your leave. You have a great deal of preparation to undertake in the next few hours."
The Mandalorian casually waved his hand towards the door, gaze already lowered to his own data pad. Hunter took that as their cue to go, sketching a hasty salute, before spinning on his heel and leaving the room, closely followed by the others.
They paused in the corridor, crowding close together almost instinctively.
"Well," said Tech, adjusting his goggles and smoothing his expression. "That was a surprisingly positive outcome."
"Yeah," added Wrecker rubbing the back of his neck. "Thought they were gonna try and decom us again."
Hunter let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.
"Fellas," he said, addressing the group as a whole, "we'd better not kark this up."
Beside him, Crosshair rolled his eyes theatrically.
"We're not stupid, Hunter. We know what happens if we kark up."
"Indeed. And none of us has any desire to face those consequences," said Tech in an unusually sombre tone.
Hunter nodded in agreement, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
"We're leaving Kamino," he said, in awe of how pleasing that fact sounded out loud.
The others appeared similarly enthusiastic, Wrecker's face almost splitting in two from the way he was so openly beaming. Tech looked like an excited child. Even Crosshair cracked a rare smile.
After all these years, after all the toil and tears and sweat and blood that they had shed, they were finally free.
...
Crosshair perused the racks of shiny new armour with barely contained glee.
The clearance Skirata had entitled them to take whatever gear and equipment they needed, a privilege only usually afforded to commandos or officers. Despite this, the quartermaster seemed reluctant to let them have free rein. The reg hovered nearby like an incessant insect, one that Crosshair would very much like to swat.
Clenching his jaw, he did his best to ignore the idiot. Don't kark it up, Hunter had said, and he had absolutely no intention of doing that.
Fortunately, the rows of armour and weapons provided enough of a distraction that the reg was quickly forgotten.
Crosshair had never seen the inside of the armoury before, but he quickly concluded that it was beautiful. Even more beautiful than those pin-ups that Wrecker kept hidden under his bunk. And that was saying something.
Most of the gear was the sterile white that most of the regs wore, and he hastily decided that he wouldn't be caught dead in something a reg would wear. He supposed he could paint it, but that seemed like a lot of hassle. Instead, his sharp eyes were drawn to a set of black katarn style armour at the top of one of the nearby shelves. Clambering up the structure, Crosshair pulled out one of the vambraces and inspected it, turning the piece over in his hands. It was far too light to be standard issue. Most likely an experimental model. Not unlike himself.
Pulling out the set, he hopped to the floor before closely scrutinising every single piece. He smiled to himself. No one would ever see him coming in this. He could almost become invisible, depending on the terrain.
The helmet was not ideal as the visor was on the narrow side, and Crosshair wasn't sure he liked the shape of it. Perhaps Tech could make some last-minute minute adjustments? His smaller brother could pretty much modify anything.
Crosshair threw the armour onto one of the hover carts supplied, before adding in a couple of the black body suits that went underneath. They looked a little small for his tall, thin frame, but he might be able to stretch them out if he tried hard enough. Maker only knew how Wrecker was supposed to fit into them though.
If he thought the selection of armour was appealing, the array of weapons was enough to set Crosshair's heart racing with excitement. Blasters of every shape and size, knives, blades, pistols, detonators, droid poppers. More than he'd ever seen in his (admittedly, short) life. Crosshair picked up one of the pistols, holding it in his hand before deciding he liked the feel of it and tossing onto his growing pile of chosen equipment. A pistol would always come in handy, though as a sharpshooter, he hoped the enemy would never get close enough to him that he'd have to use it.
He cast his eye lazily over the blasters before deeming them too cumbersome to be of any use to him. Moving to the next rack, Crosshair quickly scanned it for anything that might catch his eye. Another assortment of reg osik that most likely wouldn't hold up under the rigour of battle. He scoffed and made as though to head to the next shelf.
And then he saw it.
Propped in a dusty corner, almost completely obscured by a crate of smoke grenades.
Crosshair's hands instinctively reached for the firepunch, his fingers tracing the sleek barrel, palms coming to rest on the stock. Lifting the rifle from its stand, he hoisted it into his arms. It was heavier than he expected, but he liked that. It felt reliable.
Shouldering the butt, he brought his eye to the scope and peered through. This was right, so right. Natural, even. Like the rifle was a part of him. An extra limb, an extension of his own body.
Carefully, almost reverently, he laid the rifle in the cart, nestling it on the soft fabric of the blacks, as if afraid he might hurt it.
Crosshair surveyed his haul one last time before deeming it worthy of the best sniper in the whole kriffing galaxy.