To the Death

Author's Note: Took a bit of an unintended break from writing - which frustrated me to death - and then the BB trailer came out and I was hit with this awful, angsty idea. I have no regrets. :D

Also, this is for the square "angst" on the Bad Batch Bingo. ^-^

~ Amina Gila


When Crosshair sees Hunter, he thinks he's hallucinating it at first. There's no way Hunter can really be here – there is no escape for anyone from here, he knows that. The ray shield lowers and the guards jab a blaster into Hunter's back, shoving him forward. He stumbles inside with a pained cry going down to his knees. The ray shield reactivates, and the guards walk away without another glance, leaving the two alone: Crosshair, struck speechless from worry and shock, and Hunter, injured and in pain, pressing a hand against his bandaged ribs.

Crosshair lets his head thump back against the wall. "Kriff," he says, very eloquently. This isn't a hallucination. Hunter is really here, and he has no idea what in the galaxy he is to do about that. Hunter isn't supposed to be here. He's supposed to be with the others, on the other side of the galaxy, so far in hiding that the Empire could never find him. Did they not get his message? Did –

Hunter straightens, expression pinched with pain as he pushes himself to his feet, wavering for a moment before he moves to the bench, slumping onto it in the corner, as far from Crosshair as he can get. He's walking mostly normally, but he's hiding a limp that Crosshair can see well.

"What happened to you?" Crosshair blurts out. He can't take his eyes off Hunter, can't stop staring at him, searching his face, taking him in. He's here, he's real, he's alive, and by all the stars, Crosshair has missed him. He's missed him so much. He's missed him and Tech and Wrecker – his chest tightens at the thought of him, his twin brother – and even Echo, too.

"There – was a crash," Hunter answers, turning to him. His eyes are shadowed, exhausted. He looks… dead, like someone sucked the life right out of him.

Crosshair looks away, unable to meet that gaze and see how Hunter's changed, doesn't know how to label the tangle of uncomfortable emotions inside him at what he does see. That's not Hunter. He's not – he's not like this. "You crashed the Marauder?" His voice is not even the slightest bit hysterical, thank you very much. But still. The question stands. The Marauder was the only place he ever had to call a home other than their barracks, which no longer exists. He might not live there anymore, but it's still – it's still important to him.

Hunter makes a sound that Crosshair isn't sure how to interpret. Incredulous maybe. Surprised. "No," he answers so quickly that Crosshair knows his own misgivings at the thought were not nearly as hidden as he'd hoped. "No. It – there was a rail car. We had a run-in with the Empire, got sold out by someone we trusted. The rest are fine."

Crosshair feels himself relax a bit at that. It's not ideal, by any means, to have Hunter here, but it could be worse. One of his brothers could have died, or they all could have been captured, so he's far from thrilled that Hunter is here, but – it could be worse.

It's worse.

It's much worse.

When the guards come to take Hunter, Crosshair knows where he's going, and he's helpless to do anything but watch.

And wait.

It's a long time before Hunter is brought back, dragged back, mostly unconscious. The guards throw him onto the floor and leave. He only groans, weakly, twitching a bit before pushing himself upright. His face is ashen, and he looks like he's either going to throw up or pass out. Maybe both.

Crosshair can't help the pang of sympathy – he knows what Hemlock's torture is like – but more than that, everything is drowned out under a white-hot flood of anger. Hunter isn't supposed to be here. He's not supposed to be being tortured. He bites his tongue to keep from saying anything cruel or scathing, lashing out at Hunter because there's no one else he can yell at, and Hunter doesn't deserve it. Not now. Especially not now.

He's there to steady Hunter as he lowers himself onto the bench, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, totally drained. Crosshair pulls back as soon as he can, unwilling to touch him too long, uncertain if it's even allowed or wanted, or if it'll only hurt worse. He silently offers Hunter water, but they don't speak. Not then. There's nothing to say, anyway. What could he say? I'm sorry? That sounds stupid and inadequate, even in his own head, and he – they don't have time to talk about it right now, not about what Crosshair did to them, not about what they did to him.

The guards come back later, of course.

Again.

And again.

And Crosshair can see how it's wearing on Hunter, how he's growing weaker, bit by bit, taking a moment to breathe in their cell before pulling up a mask again, hiding how much he's in pain, how much everything around him is overstimulating him. He hides it, but Crosshair can still see it, and it makes him want to scream. He's – there's nothing he can do. He's helpless, and he hates it. Hates it.

They don't really talk – there's nothing to say, not when Hunter needs to save whatever strength he has. They don't talk about how Hunter will sometimes flinch away when Crosshair touches his shoulder or sometimes lean into it instead. They don't talk, though maybe they should. There's so much Crosshair wants to say, to ask, so much more that he needs to say, even if he doesn't want to.

And then, they come for him.

Hunter wouldn't break to the torture – of course, he didn't – so they take Crosshair, to use him against Hunter. They torture him until his throat is raw from screaming, and he can see the quiet agony in Hunter's eyes, the tightness in his face, but still, he doesn't break. It's not worth it. Crosshair isn't worth it, and he would probably stab Hunter himself if he told Hemlock where to find the others. He doesn't want the Empire to find them, not Tech, not Wrecker, not even Echo or Omega. Better that they stay far, far away, away from them and the Empire. At least they'll be safe.

When they're taken back to their cell, Hunter sits next to Crosshair for the first time, still not talking, but the way their shoulders are pressed together says more than words ever could.

I'm glad you're here. I know I shouldn't be, but I am. I'm glad to not be alone here.

That… changes something between them, and later, much later, Hunter starts talking. He tells him about the things the Batch has experienced since they first left Kamino, leaving out all the important details, but saying enough, throwing in creative details, that Crosshair can almost picture it, and it's able to distract him from the pain he's in.

He wakes up later with his head on Hunter's shoulder, and for the first time in months, Crosshair doesn't feel so terribly alone. He's… tired. He's tired of all of this. He wants to leave. He wants to go home – as though there's even a home for him to go back to. There's the Batch, of course, and they would take him in without question, without hesitation, but he doesn't know if they really would want him there, after having built a new life without him. He couldn't blame them if they didn't want him, but it still – it hurts, a gnawing ache inside him, a festering wound that never heals.

Hemlock keeps torturing them, but they don't break. Crosshair is already broken, and he has nothing, knows nothing which could help the Empire. For that, he's viciously grateful. It means that if they do break him entirely, if they make him want to give in, he'll never be able to betray his brothers, his family.

And Hunter is too strong to break.

They talk to each other when it's over, when they're back in their cell, taking turns sharing stories, always skirting around the topic of what they did to each other, how they hurt each other. I'm sorry. He tries, but he can never get the words out. He's afraid to say them, afraid to face either Hunter's dismissal, as if it's thoroughly unimportant to him now, how Crosshair hurt him, or just as bad, Hunter's rejection, his refusal or maybe just inability to accept it. He can't face either, doesn't know which would be worse, so he says nothing, and the words choke him. He trips over them every time he talks to Hunter, and the guilt strangles him, slow and persistent and ever-growing, but still, he can't bring himself to say it.

He should. Hunter deserves that much, but he still can't do it.

Crosshair hates himself a little more each day for that failure.

There was no way for him to expect the change when it came. In retrospect, maybe he should have. Hunter's stubborn refusal to say anything about the Batch or where they might have gone is nothing new, and Crosshair had felt nothing but vindictive pride when Hunter lifted his head to look Hemlock in the eye and said with cold defiance, "I will never break."

The way Hemlock had studied him had been nothing short of assessing before he smiled, slightly. "I believe you," he had answered, and they'd been taken back to their cell.

Hunter had been trembling, minutely, and Crosshair had tucked himself against Hunter's side, held his hand and talked to him softly, saying whatever came to the top of his mind in an effort to distract him from the pain.

The next time they came for Hunter, they didn't bring him back.

For –

– three –

whole

DAYS.

Crosshair will deny to his dying breath that he thought Hunter had been taken for termination, but it was a thought that persistently came back to him.

But when they bring Hunter, Hemlock comes too, and that's the moment Crosshair knows that something is horribly wrong. Hunter stands there, still and unfettered, his face empty. Blank. It's wrong, and Crosshair swallows, tensing though he doesn't even know why.

A guard lowers the ray shield, but they don't push Hunter inside as they have every time before.

Hemlock smiles, slow and triumphant, as though enjoying a victory, and Crosshair forgets to breathe. What – what did –

"CT-9901, terminate the prisoner."

What –

What

"Yes, sir," Hunter answers, robotic and dead.

Crosshair scrambles to his feet, pressing his back to the wall, heart hammering wildly as Hunter steps into the cell, face devoid of recognition. "Hunter, don't," he says, because no this isn't real this can't be happening Hunter isn't going to –

Hunter doesn't even pause.

Crosshair twists to the side when Hunter comes at him. "You don't want to do this!" he yells, angry, so angry, at Hemlock and at the universe, and scared. He's hates the fear that rears up inside of him, and he hates the thought that comes with it. Is this how Hunter felt on Kamino when he faced me? He hates it. He hates

Hunter swings at him, and Crosshair ducks, blocking the punch. Stars, they didn't even give Hunter a weapon. Is he planning to kill Crosshair with his bare hands? Is Hunter still in there? Does he know what's happening? Does he – is he – will he remember this? "I know this isn't your fault," he blurts out, because he has to give him that much, at least. He wants to cry, and he hates that part of himself. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

He's weakened from the torture, and from having been here for so long, but he still remembers how to fight. He could never forget. It's been engrained into him from the time he was very, very young, and Hunter taught him hand-to-hand combat.

He has a moment to think, gratefully, that it's not Wrecker he's facing. Wrecker is so strong, and this wouldn't be a fair fight. Crosshair shot him once, on Kamino, and it's torn him apart ever since, knowing that he shot his twin, knowing that Wrecker could have died there, and it would have been all his fault. He knew Wrecker was a traitor, and he was angry at him for following Hunter, for choosing Hunter over him, when it had always been the two of them, Wrecker and Crosshair, before they had even been a squad. They mutated, and instead of one, there were two. Tech looked it up once, in their records, and they'd had to take him out of Wrecker's tube, so they wouldn't both die. It's why Wrecker's mind isn't quite… mature the way the rest of theirs are. He was disturbed when Crosshair was extracted from the tube, and he didn't develop quite right.

They fight, back and forth, because Crosshair isn't going to go down without a fight, even if the person he's fighting is Hunter. He knows he'll lose. He's weak and exhausted, and now, after everything, he could never bring himself to hurt Hunter fatally, and that's the only way for this to go in his favor – at least for all of two minutes, perhaps, until Hemlock either has him shot or takes him and breaks him the way he did Hunter.

At least, he thinks morbidly, he'll be dying with one of his brothers here. It had been his only regret on Barton IV, that he would never see them again, that none of them would be there with him in his dying moments.

Hunter has no reservations in the fight, not like Crosshair, and they must have healed him because he seems stronger. Definitely stronger than Crosshair is. Well, kriff. It can't be long before Hunter manages to get him on the floor of the cell in a chokehold that he can't break. He squirms and kicks and tries to bite him, but to no avail.

He only has the air to rasp, "Hunter, please," though it makes no difference at all.

So this is how he's going to die then, at Hunter's hands when Hunter doesn't even know who he is.

I'm sorry, he thinks desperately, the words he never got to say, the words he wants to say most. I'm sorry for all of it.

The world is blurring and darkening around the edges, his struggles for air more instinctive than actual resistance, when Hemlock tells Hunter to release him. He sounds pleased, but instead of taking Hunter, he has the guards reactivate the ray shield as he leaves. Crosshair scrambles back, coughing and gasping, as he plasters himself against the wall, watching Hunter warily, unsure what to expect.

But Hunter merely looks around the cell and then goes to the bench as though this is nothing out of the ordinary for him.

Crosshair stays there until he recovers somewhat, and his heart stops racing, and his body stops shaking, before slowly uncoiling and leaning back against the wall. He's not ready to move to the bench yet, not when it'll mean getting closer to Hunter. It's a while – he doesn't know how long – before he's able to start relaxing, just a bit, though he never takes his eyes off Hunter. Can't. He's too wary. Is this how Hunter felt about him? On Kamino? It hurts to think of it, and then, it hurts to even think of anything about what they used to be when he doesn't know if Hunter remembers it, if he ever will remember it.

"Hunter?" he rasps, just because he needs to know.

Hunter's head turns toward him, but his eyes are just as distant and unrecognizing as before. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

A vibroknife to the chest would have hurt less. "It's your name," he answers, more hotly than he means to, but it hurts. He hurts.

His brow furrows. "I don't remember."

Crosshair swallows, looking away, resisting the urge to rub at his throat. His neck still hurts. "Hemlock did something to you, to your mind."

Hunter's face does something complicated, but Crosshair isn't exactly looking at him, and he's too worn out to parse it anyway. "How…" He cuts himself off there, and it's the hesitancy in his voice that makes Crosshair look back, waiting. "How do you know me?" It – he sounds almost vulnerable, and Crosshair might pay more attention to that if he wasn't a seething ball of emotions too tangled to pick apart.

It guts him. It hurts more than he thought possible, more than anything he's faced before now, even more than when the Batch walked out on Kamino and left him behind. "We were part of the same squad," Crosshair answers, and through some miracle, his voice is steady. Relatively. Hunter would have noticed, but this – whatever he's been made into, isn't Hunter; he doesn't know Crosshair – he won't notice. "We grew up together."

Right now, Hunter seems relatively nonviolent, and Crosshair slowly, warily, pushes himself to his feet, watching for the slightest indications of imminent violence as he slinks to the bench. Hunter watches him, and that, he does catch, because he slides all the way to the other end, against the wall. They're still close together, but not enough so that Crosshair is as on edge.

The silence, as they sit there, is strained and uncertain, and Crosshair wants to rage at the unfairness of it all. He wants to cry. He wants Hunter back. He sucks in a breath, clenching his jaw and refusing to betray his emotions through sheer willpower. He won't let Hemlock or Hunter or anyone see how much he's hurting.

"What's your name?" Hunter asks softly, his slight fidgeting betraying his awkwardness.

"Crosshair." That he even has to say it is nearly enough to take him to pieces. He wants to cry. He wants to cry. It – stars, he wishes he could have talked to Hunter one more time before… this. He wishes he'd apologized. He wishes it so badly that he aches with it. He'd go to his knees and beg for forgiveness if he had to, if it would even matter.

I'm sorry, he wants to say, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I don't know why I hurt you. I'm regret everything, all of it. I wish I hadn't been so selfish and stubborn. I wish I'd gone with you on Kamino.

He knows escape isn't realistic, but now? He doesn't know how he could even bring himself to escape if there was a way. He can't imagine going back to the others, telling Tech and Wrecker that he lost Hunter, that whoever Hunter is now, he doesn't even know them, won't hesitate to kill them if ordered to. Hunter was always there for them, always. When they needed someone, he was always there. How can he go to his brothers and tell them that it's all over? That they only have each other to rely on? How can he be expected to do that? To face their disappointment? Or worse, their rejection?

But they wouldn't turn him away, and that? That would be the worst part. Wrecker wouldn't blame him. He's too… He's Wrecker. He's Crosshair's twin brother. He always accepts him, and if Crosshair went back to him, he wouldn't even hold it against him for shooting him. He's so accepting, too accepting, and Crosshair doesn't deserve that. Won't deserve that. Never will deserve that.

He doesn't want to face them, to tell them what happened, and more than that, he doesn't want to be alone here.

Having Hunter here was both a blessing and a curse. He was someone Crosshair knew, someone who cared, someone who knew him inside and out. But now Hunter is gone, and whoever this is, whatever he is now, it's not Hunter. Hunter is…

Hunter is gone, and Crosshair needs to accept it. Somehow.

Hunter doesn't know him anymore. He doesn't know him.

He –

"You're a sniper," Hunter states more than asks, and Crosshair swallows, nodding, unable to trust his voice. He shifts closer, and though he reaches out slowly enough that Crosshair sees it coming, he still flinches violently when Hunter's hand lands on his shoulder. He freezes, unable to move, maybe too afraid to move, as Hunter looks at him searchingly, expression creased with some unnamable internal struggle.

"I know you," he says. "You're… familiar to me. Your scent – it's familiar, but I can't remember you. I –"

"It's okay," Crosshair whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say, and he can see the way Hunter is twisting himself up over that. It's – Crosshair can still read him and that somehow makes this whole thing worse.

"It's not okay," Hunter contradicts firmly, "But I appreciate what you're doing." He pulls back with a quiet sigh, shaking his head roughly, and Crosshair sees a flash of something tortured before he looks away entirely. Typical. Only Hunter would beat himself up just like this for not remembering something, for not remembering him. It's so – so Hunter that it makes Crosshair ache, wishing he could help. But talking to him about something in the past won't help, not when Hunter doesn't even remember him enough for the stories to have any meaning.

And so, the silence lingers.

"I don't know what Hemlock wants from me," Hunter says suddenly, breaking the stillness and interrupting Crosshair's carefully timed breaths to prevent what's starting to feel like an inevitable breakdown – which he hates himself for because he hasn't cried in years.

"He wants you to find the rest of the squad, I imagine," Crosshair answers.

"Do you know where they are?"

The question is innocent, but Crosshair still tenses. This isn't Hunter, not truly, and his appearance and voice are able to lull Crosshair into a false sense of security in a way nothing else can, but the memory of being strangled is still sharp and vivid, so he can't forget. "No," he replies, "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

It makes him worry, though, because Hemlock wouldn't have done this, and lost his only lead, unless he has something else in mind. Something… worse. Something that he believes will guarantee success.

And suddenly, Crosshair begins to get the horrible, sick feeling that he knows what that something is.

If he killed himself now, if he could somehow manage such a thing, maybe it would successfully avert what's coming. But he doesn't want to die, and he doesn't want to kill himself based merely on a possibility. Living and escaping would spite Hemlock more, and Crosshair lives to spite people.

"He told me he has a mission for me," Hunter tells him, "That this was a test."

"Of course, it was," Crosshair mutters bitterly. Knowing that Hunter would try to kill Crosshair when ordered and without hesitation would prove the effectiveness of whatever Hemlock did.

"I don't want to hurt you," Hunter says softly, "I know I don't remember, but I know you. I feel it. You're familiar, and I don't want to…"

He doesn't finish, but the kill you hangs in the air between them.

Yeah, well, Crosshair doesn't really want Hunter to kill him, either. … Hunter didn't want Crosshair to kill him, and yeah – didn't really stop him from trying, and he hates himself for that, for having been willing to do that. To Hunter. To all his brothers. He nearly killed them so many times, and he doesn't deserve them, even though he knows they'll take him back. Of course, they will. They hurt him, too, but he'll still go back to them. They're brothers, family. It's that simple.

"And what did you want me to do about that, Hunter?" Crosshair asks, bitterly. "I can't absolve you of your guilt or tell you I'm okay with it."

Hunter winces. "No, I – I wouldn't ask that of you."

This, at least, is one thing about Hunter that hasn't changed. Crosshair tilts his head toward him. "Then what?"

"Will you follow me?" he queries. "When Hemlock sends me out, if I tell him I want you as my sniper, will you follow me, follow my orders, even if you don't like them?"

Crosshair feels a cold wash of dread because this – this is the question he wanted to hear the least and the one he expected to hear the most. Hunter doesn't remember, and if Hemlock orders Hunter to kill him, he will. And if Hemlock can reverse the mindwipe? If anything can break Hunter, him knowing that he has Crosshair's blood on his hands would.

And Crosshair cares about Hunter far, far too much to let him go through that. He can forgive him for it, perhaps, but in the face of Hunter being unable to forgive himself, that wouldn't matter. But he promised himself that he was done following the Empire on Barton IV, after Nolan let Mayday die for nothing. All you'll ever be to them is a number, Hunter had told him on Kamino, and he hadn't understood at the time, hadn't wanted to understand, but on Barton IV, he had understood. He had accepted it. And he was angry. He shot Nolan for it, for letting Mayday die like that, for treating them as though they were nothing. He's not a number. He's not. His name is Crosshair, and he doesn't want to serve the Empire ever again.

But – but

This is Hunter.

Hunter, his brother, who grew up with him, who took care of him, who was still gentle with him even here, even after everything. Hunter, who Crosshair would have once followed anywhere, even if it meant deserting. Hunter, who Crosshair hurt, who he tried to kill over and over.

And he can't – he can't

He can't let Hunter kill him, can't let him have to bear that burden, can't let him stain his hands with blood on Hemlock's behest.

Maybe if they leave, Crosshair can find a way to get Hunter away from the Empire and take him back to their squad. If anyone can find a way to reverse what Hemlock did, Tech can. Of course, they'll have to find them first, and Crosshair will have to be careful, since he can't trust that Hunter won't betray him to Hemlock or kill him if he thinks Crosshair is still a traitor.

He swallows, uneasily, and then turns to meet the familiar, but empty, eyes staring at him. Hunter might not remember him, but Crosshair has no doubt that he can still read him. He'll have to be careful, so careful, to not give Hunter a reason to turn on him.

"Yes," he says softly and hopes he's not dooming the both of them and the rest of their squad, "I'll follow you."

Because the one fundamental truth that has always been true about them – his brief stint with the Empire aside – is that Crosshair will follow Hunter anywhere.

Even it means going back to the Empire.

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