Cadet Batch 99

Author's Note: I had soooo much fun with this. It was depressing and angsty in all the right ways, though it did... sort of go off on a tangent of how awful the clones' training on Kamino was. Which was fun to address. :)

I wrote this for ProwlingThunder on ao3, and it's also for the square "depression" on the Bad Batch bingo. ^-^

PS. The art on the front cover was drawn by Shyranno on tumblr.

~ Amina Gila

The one thing Crosshair wanted most was to go home. Home. It's a distant, almost unfamiliar, concept to him now. Where is home? Once, home was with his brothers, but then, they left, abandoned him, and now, he's all alone. He doesn't have a home anymore. Maybe he never did. Maybe it was only ever a lie.

He thought he belonged with the Empire, but they never came back for him. It's been weeks, and still nothing. He doesn't want to die here, left and forgotten on Kamino. He was meant for more than that.

"You all are meant for more than drifting through the galaxy."

"All you'll ever be to them is a number."

And then, everything changes. He wakes up to a world that's still just as rainy and miserable as ever, but it's… different somehow. It takes him a moment to realize what, and even longer to determine that he's not hallucinating. Kamino. It's there. Tipoca City, which he watched burn, is there, as though it was never destroyed at all.

What the kriff is going on?

He moves from the landing platform, manages to sneak to the main facility without being seen – it is so useful that he knows of the underwater transport system – and then discovers that he's over six years in the past.

…

Stranger things have happened to them.

… Okay, maybe not, but he can – work with this. Somehow.

Maybe.

There's no Empire to serve anymore, and no Republic that needs his services in the Clone Wars. The war won't even break out for three more years. Following orders is something Crosshair knows. This – this, he doesn't. There's no one here to tell him what to do. No one who can give him orders that he can follow. It was easy when he only had to follow orders – that's what he was trained for. But this? What is he to do now?

He has no war to fight, no orders to follow, no home to go back to. He doesn't know if his brothers ended up here in the past through whatever sorcery brought him here, but he's not going to hope. Even if they're here, they're still traitors. Or they will be traitors? He's not sure how all that works, but it's too confusing to sort out and thinking about them hurts too much anyway. He has nowhere to go. No one would miss him if he died. No one would even care. It's a sobering thought, not one he cares to explore too deeply.

A Kaminoan finds him, and he blames his exhaustion on why – he hasn't eaten or slept properly in days. Weeks, even. For a heartbeat, Crosshair thinks he'll have to run, to try and escape even without his rifle. His brothers took it, like they took everything from him. They left him here to die. … Maybe he is dead. Maybe this is just a screwed-up afterlife of some sort. Doesn't really feel like he's dead though.

If he was dead, his head shouldn't be aching, and he shouldn't feel shaky and exhausted from his ordeal of being stranded for so long.

Instead of immediately calling security, the Kaminoan asks him if he's one of the new trainers who came to train the clones. Crosshair doesn't know what to say to that, so he's not sure why a "yes" slips out. But when he thinks about it, it makes sense. He knows the clones, knows warfare. He's more than equipped to involve himself in training, and it's something to do. And it means he'll be helping in the eventual war effort, helping the Republic – soon-to-be an empire. He doesn't have orders to follow anymore, but this is something he knows. This is something he can do, and it's useful and important.

It's not like he has anywhere else to go, and he can hardly tell them that he's a time traveler. He's not that stupid.

Somehow, no one notices that he doesn't really seem to belong there, and when he sneaks into a storage closet and steals paint to add personalization touch-ups to his armor, it only adds to his cover story of being an ex-soldier who came here for a job. He tweaks his new helmet a bit, too, so his voice is a bit more mechanized. He can't take his helmet off in front of anyone or they might realize that he looks too much like the clones, but that's okay. It's not like he knows any of these trainers, a random assortment of bounty hunters and Mandalorian warriors who were displaced from their home. He doesn't know all of them, but some of them…

Well, the Batch's trainers were never exactly nice to them. The trainers were never nice to any of the clones. They were often harsh, too much so, handing out disciplinary measures indiscriminately, sometimes just because one of the clones annoyed them too much. Crosshair remembers it vividly and bitterly – he and his brothers often got the worst of it, for being so visibly different from the other clones. They always stood out.

It takes time, months, before he finally feels a bit settled in, before it feels like he has an actual routine and life. He knows the clones like him, which is all kinds of weird. The regs always hated them, looked down on them, and to have them like him? He's not sure how much he likes it. But then, they don't know who he is. They don't realize he's a clone like them. As far as they know, he's just another trainer, albeit one who's far nicer than most – probably all. He remembers, keenly, what it was like to be treated as lesser, as trash, and he wouldn't subject the clones he's training to the same, even if they are regs.

He tries not to pretend that he finds it hilarious how some of the regs he trains are hardly younger than him. But he's a better soldier than all of them. The Batch were trained to be commandos, the best of the best, and they proved it time and again. Their first field mission was when they were scarcely eight. At the time, he'd found it fun. Now, he just finds it all tiresome. He's tired of fighting, tired of feeling alone.

(He wants to go home.)

His feelings don't matter though, no more than they ever have, and he tucks them away, forcibly suppresses them, buries them deep, deep down so he won't dwell on them. And it works, mostly. At least it does until, one day, nearly a year after he ended up in the past, he spots a way-too-familiar gray-haired clone who can't be older than four. He's tiny. … He was never that tiny. It doesn't even seem possible that he could have been. He knows he's staring, but he can't help it, especially not when those golden-brown eyes narrow at him. That's – stars, that's him.

Crosshair tears his gaze away, determined not to stare, intent on behaving as he always has. He's a sniper, the best the GAR ever had, and maybe he can't make these cadets as good as he was – because they don't have the benefit of enhanced eyesight – but he can make them good. He tries not to think too hard about his younger self who is in the room, who is probably still struggling to get used to his eyesight. The trainers never helped him with that, but – but he knows how to deal with it from experience, and he's not going to make his younger self go through what he did – the struggles and uncertainties and confusion.

(He refuses to let himself dwell on his brothers, on how they're all here too, tiny and young and not his. At least he's not in charge of training them. That would be… weird. He always used to look up to Hunter when he was little. Having that dynamic reversed is too bizarre for him to contemplate for long.)

After double-checking what information the Kaminoans shared with him about the younger's enhancement, Crosshair approaches him. "Your eyesight is different, enhanced," he says, and stars, he has no idea how to talk to him. How would he have wanted someone to talk to him when he was young? He hardly even remembers. Mainly, he just recalls hating his trainers and disliking the time he had to spend apart from his brothers.

Wary eyes stare up at him – his eyesight has always been a touchy subject for him. He was an experiment, and his eyes were the thing that made him different from the regs, the thing that meant he belonged with the Batch, the thing that made him useful. "Yes, sir," comes the quiet reply, and Crosshair very nearly winces at hearing it. He doesn't care if the regs address him like that, but this is him.

Stars, this is so weird.

"You'll need additional training, so you know your limits and weaknesses," Crosshair tells him.

His trainer had treated the whole thing as some sort of game, enjoying seeing the ways Crosshair's eyesight could be used against him. He hadn't known what to do with a cadet who could see details no one else could. He hadn't understood or cared about the way bright lights hurt, the way a lack of a filter over his eyes could make a migraine set in during practice. Tech modified his helmet just for him, so he could process things better. Over time, Crosshair got used to processing additional stimuli without aids in much the same way Hunter adjusted to processing so much information, but it had taken time. His younger self suffered so much while learning, and Crosshair can't help the protectiveness he feels now. He isn't going to let this little him go through what he did.

The cadet nods. "Yes, sir." He betrays very little outwardly, but Crosshair can still see the wariness and tension in his body, and he doesn't like it.

But he doesn't know what to do about it, either.

The Batch always had a hard time trusting anyone. All too often, adults were only interested in them because they were experiments, because they were different, and that often proved to be a bad thing for all of them.

(He hates the way this is making him remember things from when he was younger, hates how much it makes him miss his brothers. They're traitors, and they chose their path. They made a choice, and they didn't choose him. He shouldn't miss them.

But he does. Stars, he does.)

Training his younger self is simultaneously weird and fulfilling, but he's careful to steer clear of the other Batch members because he doesn't want to see them, doesn't think he's ready to. Probably, he never will be. They left him. They left him, and he – (he knows it wasn't their fault, knows he didn't give them a choice, but holding onto his anger so much easier than admitting how much he misses them when he'll never see them again.)

It takes a few weeks before little him stops being so distrustful and wary before he starts opening up a bit. He might not say it – they were trained that emotions are a weakness – but Crosshair thinks he enjoys their lessons more than any of the other training sessions he has. Which is oddly touching. He tries not to dwell on it too much. He also tries very, very hard not to think about how much little him reminds him of Omega, their sister. It's disturbing. At least Omega wasn't as sharp or sarcastic as he is. Otherwise, he would be genuinely hurt that his brothers picked her up – were they replacing him? Well, he's a bit hurt anyway, but it doesn't matter anymore. They're gone, and he needs to accept that.

Somehow.

He has a plan, though, and that plan is to help his younger self while avoiding the rest of his squad.

That plan, predictably, does not work out.

Crosshair's been training the younger him for a couple months when it happens. Their training session ran a bit late because Crosshair was trying out a few things he thought of to make it easier for the young him to learn how to ignore all unnecessary visual input – field missions would be easier for training purposes, but those obviously aren't an option.

"It's easier in a natural environment," Crosshair admits as they leave the training room, "There's only so well that holograms can simulate something, and they tend to be even more distracting." He hasn't outright admitted to having enhanced eyesight, but he's pretty sure that little him suspects that by now.

A yell draws his attention, and Crosshair freezes in place when he sees someone he hasn't seen in a long, long time. The Zabrak trained Hunter for a while, one-on-one, with a vibroblade, but he had been… cruel would be an understatement. He took any opportunity to pick on Hunter – and the rest of them – sometimes even resorting to "physical disciplinary measures". The Kaminaons never cared, but Crosshair did. They all did, but all they could do was seethe in silence and pretend that being pushed around or hit didn't bother them. It's not like there was anything they could do about it. Their trainer was always in the right, and they're just clones – who would listen to them?

The Zabrak in question is currently staring down at a tiny Hunter. He's tiny, barely up to Crosshair's waist, if even. He's even shorter than little him, who isn't much taller than that. They're four.

… Crosshair somehow forgot that Hunter's hair used to be so long. It's almost down to his waist, tied back with a strip of fabric so it doesn't get in his face during training, and it makes something twist in his chest to see it. This is Hunter, and stars, Crosshair has missed him. This might not be his Hunter, but it's still Hunter, and for a moment, Crosshair doesn't even care that they left him behind. He would give anything, anything at all, to be with them again.

Little Hunter's expression is placid and blank, but Crosshair can see the tightness of his face, the way he's hiding his fear, and it makes him furious. He doesn't even know why the Zabrak is angry at Hunter this time – probably for, y'know, not being able to fight like an adult when he's only four years old. The man goes to hit him, and Crosshair just – loses it.

He's moving before he even registers doing so, much less planning to do so, catching the man's wrist in a bruising grip before it can make contact with Hunter and slamming his fist into his face. It makes a very satisfying crunch. It's actually even more satisfying than it ever was in his many daydreams about it. What? He's spiteful like that. He might be ten now, but he's still angry about it. Doesn't think he ever stopped being angry about it, really.

The Zabrak yelps loudly as blood spills from his broken nose and tries to punch him back, and Crosshair twists, letting the man's fist graze the side of his arm. It hardly even moves him. "What's wrong with you?!" he yells.

"Me?" snarls Crosshair, shoving him into the wall. "You were going to hit him! He's a child!"

"What's it to you?" he snaps, pushing back, but Crosshair has an advantage here, because of his strength and because he can do this without fearing retaliation or decommissioning. "He's just a clone."

Crosshair forces himself to take a steady breath before he commits murder. Aside from probably traumatizing little him and Hunter, it would be messy and cause needless complications. He's still tempted though. If this was Wrecker they were talking about, he'd probably have flayed him alive by now or at least ripped his face off. And then he'd have to dispose of the body without anyone finding out.

He's been so, so angry and bitter. It's nothing new. Those feelings kindled when he realized that his brothers were traitors, when they left him behind, and it's only worse now. Sometimes, it feels like nothing can contain the rage humming just under his skin. He never used to be this violent, and he hates what he's become, but it – it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. If it's not anger, then it's depression. That's worse, because at least if he's angry, he can channel that fury into something. If he's depressed, his mind only loops over and over how nothing matter, how no one will care if he dies, how he's nothing and the only people who cared about him, once, are gone.

Crosshair wants to punch the Zabrak again, but it won't make a difference. So many consider the clones as lesser and nothing he does can change that. He can feel the bitterness rising up, can feel it choking him, but he can't – the helplessness of it makes him want to rage. He can't make anyone see them as anything more.

"All you'll ever be to them is a number."

Yes, thank you, memory-of-Hunter, he gets it in a way he never did before. Or maybe before he just never wanted to.

"Leave," he says, his voice ice, pushing the man just because he can, standing between him and the child Hunter who's behind him.

The Zabrak scowls, wiping at the blood on his face, muttering something that sounds like, "kriffing Mandalorians" under his breath. Crosshair's hand twitches toward his blaster, and he was genuinely going to shoot him, forget about the consequences, when a small hand grabs his wrist to keep it still. He waits until the trainer is out of side before turning his head to look down at Hunter. And he is looking down at him. A long way down which – if his Hunter was here, Crosshair would tease him about it mercilessly. Hunter was so grumpy when he realized he'd be the shortest of them.

"Don't," Hunter says as firmly and authoritatively as he can, which isn't much when he's four, but Crosshair's brain automatically accepts it as an order anyway and he relaxes his stance before he even registers it. And then mentally curses, because this Hunter is tiny, and Crosshair is not going to start following him around like a lost tooka.

He's not that lonely or desperate.

(He would die before admitting that he is.)

And then they stare at each other. It's awkward, but Crosshair can't find his voice, feeling too raw and vulnerable to dredge up the mask he wears every day and dismiss them as if they are just cadets and he's just a trainer. This isn't – they aren't – they are so much more than cadets to him, they're his brothers, and he doesn't – he can't – he –

"Crosshair," Hunter says, looking at him, and Crosshair yanks away from him, taking a few steps back, his heart skipping a beat. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid. Of course. Of course, Hunter figured it out. Of course, he did. Crosshair doesn't fully understand how his abilities work, but he should have known that Hunter was too smart not to pick up on the way he "feels" like little him. He doesn't know how to even begin to explain this.

"Yeah," little him answers, brow furrowing as he looks between Hunter and Crosshair. He doesn't know, or suspect, anything then which is good, but…

(Crosshair hurts.

He wants to run and not look back. He wants – he wants – he wants –

He wants more than he can ever get.)

Hunter is studying him like he's a complicated puzzle to solve, and he slowly steps closer, reaching for his hand. Crosshair lets him take it, numbly, wanting something he'll never get. This isn't his Hunter. It's just. Hunter. A different Hunter. He's too different for it to matter. "I know you're Crosshair," he tells him. "You feel like him. You smell like him. I know who you are, but I don't know how."

Crosshair's hand tightens reflexively on Hunter's tiny one. It's weird. "I don't know, either," he answers, and little him makes a high-pitched squeak. It sounds cute. Which is weird, too. This is him. He's not cute. (Apparently, he used to be. Ugh.)

Hunter glances around. "Can you come to our barracks?" he asks. "Explain what you can?"

He shouldn't. He –

But why would it matter if he did? Staying away from them isn't going to change anything. Not for him. And he's so, so tired of being alone.

"Yeah," he answers, "Sure." He knows he sounds dead, empty. Hunter's expression tightens with worry, and he squeezes his hand before tugging him down the hall. It's a good thing that Crosshair's last session is the one with little him because he's not in the mindset right now to do anything with anyone. Except his brothers maybe.

"You're me?" little him questions as they walk, face scrunching with confused adorableness – and he needs to stop thinking about him with that word please.

"I was," he replies, "Once." He's not anymore. Little him has brothers, a family, a home. He has nothing.

"How'd you get here? Or's that how'd I get here? I dunno."

"I don't know," he answers, staring straight ahead, not looking down at either of the two. Hunter is still holding his hand. "I woke up here."

"Where're the others?" Hunter questions, and Crosshair flinches.

They left me, he wants to snap, you left me, but he's not that cruel. He would never do that to them. They don't need to know. He can fix it, make it better so it never happens to them, so little him doesn't lose his brothers the way he did.

"They're… gone. They didn't come."

Hunter leans into his side. "I'm sorry."

Me too, he thinks, but he can't say it. This Hunter won't understand, and Crosshair will never be able to apologize to his own. I'm sorry, he thinks anyway, even if it'll never matter. I'm so sorry.

Crosshair has to stop for a moment when they reach the door to their barracks. The last time he was here… his brothers were too, but it was different then. Everything was different and wrong and –

Hunter and little him wait patiently until Crosshair nods jerkily to let them know he's ready. Little him reaches up to open the door, and together, the three of them enter. Tech and Wrecker are there, and Crosshair's breathing hitches when he sees them. It's been so long, and he's missed them so much.

"Listen, I know this is gonna sound strange," Hunter says, above the two's most incoherent questions, "But this is Crosshair, too."

"I'm – from the future," Crosshair adds awkwardly as they gape at him. He feels uncomfortable, far more than he has in… a while. They matter to him. He cares what they think about him.

"That is impossible," Tech states firmly, turning to look at Hunter.

Hunter shrugs. "He is. I don't understand it, either."

"I woke up here," Crosshair explains, "A year ago. It's… been a long year."

"That's what your armor's gonna look like?" Wrecker asks, sliding off his bunk, Lula tucked under one arm as he approaches, looking him up and down with curiosity.

Crosshair can't look away from him, can't stop staring at the way his face is unscarred, the way he's studying him with both eyes. It's been so long since Wrecker's injury that seeing him without it is strange and disconcerting. "No," he answers, as he registers the question, "I changed my armor when I came here, so I wouldn't stick out." It's the truth. Technically. He's just omitting how the armor he changed wasn't the armor he wore as a Batcher.

Wrecker nods as if that makes sense to him, and to them, it might. It doesn't seem to bother them much. It bothers him. Sometimes, he still wakes up and expects to see armor that's red and black and gray before he remembers. "What do you look like when you're big?"

He stills because it's not something he gave thought to before agreeing to come, and he hasn't taken his helmet off in front of another person since before he time traveled. He knows what he looks like, and he knows he looks different than they expect. They're going to ask questions, he imagines, about his scar, and he – he doesn't know what to say to them. He'll never tell them the truth. He won't do that to them.

But he has no reason to refuse Wrecker, and this is Wrecker. Crosshair can't refuse him. The two of them have always shared a special bond, probably because they're the youngest, and they often got into mischief together – that's how Wrecker got his scar. It was stupid. It was an accident, and that's why it was so scary. It shouldn't've happened, but it did, and… they nearly lost him because they were being dumb. It changed them, Crosshair especially, and he hesitated to fool around as much and as senselessly as he did before.

Slowly, he reaches up and pulls his helmet off, tucking it under his arm. They don't react much to seeing him; they only stare at him curiously. It settles him a little, and he pulls out a toothpick, putting the end in his mouth. He started the habit after they nearly lost Wrecker – it gave him a distraction when he struggled with his complicated feelings about the incident.

"How'd you get the scar?" little him asks.

"Mission went badly," he answers, tone warning them not to probe. He nods, accepting it, and Wrecker leans up on his tiptoes to stare at his face.

"I like it," he says, lightly touching the tattoo on Crosshair's face.

He can't help but smile faintly at that. It feels strange. When was the last time he smiled?

"What'd we look like?" Wrecker questions.

"Older," Crosshair deadpans.

Tech huffs. "Obviously."

He wishes he had a holoimage of them, if only so he'd have a memory, something to reassure him that it was real, everything he went through. "Hunter had a tattoo, too," he says, "A skull on the left side of his face. He yowled the whole time I was trying to ink it even though it was his idea in the first place."

Hunter looks offended by that, and Crosshair smirks. So does little him. It's identical and eerie. "I don't yowl."

Wrecker gives Crosshair – and little him – a gleeful look. "You sure?"

Hunter's eyes widen slightly. "Wrecker, don't –" he begins, holding up his hands. Wrecker charges him, and Hunter yelps as Wrecker tackles him, squirming to get out of his hold when Wrecker starts trying to tickle him. With a delighted and triumphant look, little him jumps at Hunter, too.

Crosshair laughs. He can't help it. It's been so, so long since they fooled around together – once Echo joined them, they changed, became more serious, afraid of chasing him away – and stars, he's missed it. "Try his palms," he drawls, just because he can. It's been so long since he had the liberty to tease his brothers.

Hunter throws him a betrayed look. "I thought you'd be on my side!" He makes a sort of half-shriek, half-squeal noise when the two actually manage to test that information. It's not a yowl, but it's close enough. Hunter is unreasonably ticklish. It's because of his enhanced senses, Crosshair knows, but he found it hilarious when he was little.

"I'm on my own side," Crosshair smirks, though it falls away quickly when he realizes what he said – and how true it is. The others must sense his falling mood because Wrecker lets Hunter squirm away, and he scrubs his hands against his legs to get rid of the feeling before coming closer.

"You okay?"

He bites down on the toothpick, not answering, and there's a flurry of movement before he's nearly knocked right off his feet by Wrecker wrapping himself around him. His free arm, the one not holding his helmet, automatically comes up to hug him back, and he doesn't know if he wants to scream or cry more right now. He does neither. Instead, he swallows hard, breathing in shakily to force the tangle of emotions deep down again.

"Do you have… something to draw with?" he asks, to distract them and himself. He used to draw a long time ago. Was pretty good at it. And he doesn't know any other way to truly… show what they were like, what they became.

"Yes, we do," Tech answers, and he picks up a pad and stylus and passes them to Crosshair. Wrecker seems intent on gluing himself to Crosshair, so he doesn't bother trying to pry him off and instead half-drags him to the table in the center of their barracks, setting his helmet down, and lying the pad next to it as he sits.

He can feel the other three moving closer to him, and Hunter sits next to him. Little him half-climbs onto the table to sprawl in front of him and after giving him a disapproving look – which he ignores, of course – Tech moves to the other side. Crosshair stares at the pad for a long time, fingers clenching and unclenching on the stylus as he dredges up an old memory of the four of them before Echo joined. It hurts to remember. It hurts to touch, but with the four of them here, it's… easier somehow.

"What're you drawing?" little him inquires.

"Us," he answers, chewing on the toothpick a little more before he starts to draw. He's not in the picture because this is something from his memory, something that's through his eyes. But this is what he wants to capture. Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker as he remembers them from before Echo joined, from before they all started changing.

He draws for… a long time, and though the four don't leave, they don't stay right next to him as they did at the beginning. It's probably boring to watch him anyway, so he can't blame them. It's enough that they're here. It's enough that he can hear them, that his mind registers it as home and safe, and lets him let go of his surroundings enough to focus. It's hours before he's done, and when he finally lays the stylus down, he has to shake out his hand to get rid of the cramping. It's not perfect, and there are so, so many more details that he could add to it, but it gets the rough idea down which is what's most important.

It was a mission before Yalbec Prime, and they'd been laughing and joking with each other. The moment he captured had been when he and Wrecker had been silently scheming mischief together. Tech was talking animatedly, oblivious, but Hunter had noticed, and Crosshair caught him watching them with a fond, amused smile.

He stares at it until tears prick at his eyes and he just can't anymore, slowly sliding it away from him. "We were on a mission," he says as Hunter picks up the pad to look at it, "A couple years ago, for me." A myriad of emotions flash across Hunter's face, but most prominently, he looks… pleased. Happy. Maybe a little wistful.

Tech and Wrecker crowd in to look at it, too, and little him stands on his tiptoes to look over Hunter's shoulder. For a moment, they're quiet, and then, "what happened to my head?" Wrecker asks.

Crosshair tenses a bit, unsure how to answer, but the truth shouldn't hurt. This time. "There was an accident," he replies, "When we were playing with an explosive Hunter told us not to." He told them it felt off, and Wrecker thought that it might be mis-wired so he decided to fix it. It had blown up in his face. Literally. The only reason Crosshair wasn't caught in the blast was because Wrecker had shoved him across the room to protect him.

There's a moment of incredulous, horrified silence. "It could have ended up being much worse," Crosshair adds unhelpfully. He's pretty sure that doesn't make any of them feel better.

Hunter breaks the strained quiet. "Can you tell us about that mission?"

The atmosphere relaxes as four pairs of eyes turn toward Crosshair, and he can't stop his gaze from flickering to the picture again any more than he can stop the wistful smile that ghosts across his face. Maybe this is one way of keeping the memories alive.

He tells them the story, but it's late by the time he's done, so he insists that they all get some rest. He, on the other hand, has something to take care of which means he can't stay as he would like to. The next morning, he requests official permission to take over the majority of the Batch's training, with the exception of the specialized training that Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker need to make them reach their best.

His request is granted.

It's weird, he can't help thinking, to be in charge of the Batch, and Crosshair doesn't know that he likes it much. Once, he always followed Hunter, but now… even if this isn't his Hunter, it's still Hunter, and it's still strange. Nothing will be able to get rid of the strangeness of it. But it also means spending more time with them, and that's not something he's opposed to by any means, not now. He's been alone for so long, and these aren't his brothers, but they're still… they're still them, and that's what matters most.

In public, during training, they're respectful to him. They listen to him. Inside their barracks is a whole other story, of course. He tells them more about the future-past he lived. He fills them in on stories and missions, no matter how absurd. … He might even embellish some of them to make them funnier or more exciting. The four are children, and they're still too young to understand exactly how horrible war is.

(He doesn't tell them that he and the Batch parted ways, that he was left behind, that he tried to kill his brothers. He doesn't tell them about anything that happened after Kaller.)

He also draws another picture for them, though this one takes him a good month to finish, because of the details he adds and the many times he has to stop due to the memories evoked. It's his best effort at copying the official holoimage that Hunter had taken of the five of them after Echo joined which he kept with his things. The picture was lost, but Crosshair remembers it well enough to put it down on paper. It's not quite accurate, and he can't help but feel frustration at the way some of the details are blurred in his mind. It makes him afraid, too, afraid that he's forgetting his brothers. He has good eyesight, and he can see details that most do not, but he doesn't have the memory Tech does. He can't remember the details Tech can, which is both a blessing and a curse. At times like now, when he wants to remember, it's a curse.

He misses them. He'll never stop missing them. He'll never stop feeling as though pieces of himself were ripped away and lost. Because it's true. The Batch were close in a way no other clones are, and Crosshair can't replace those bonds with anyone, even the younger Batch he has now. His brothers are gone. And that – that is a wound from which he can never heal.

It's from the picture that the others find out about Echo, which naturally leads to a lot of questions about him.

Crosshair almost regrets telling them, not because he didn't want them to know that a reg joined them, but because of their insistence on meeting this Echo. They're insistent, and when they're all giving him that face, he doesn't know how to say no. He ends up stalking the Domino squad for a couple weeks before letting the Batch know of the most likely locations to "accidentally" run into them.

In retrospect? He doesn't know why he ever thought it was a good idea. It was a terrible, terrible idea. The Dominos don't know what to make of the Batch, and Crosshair is quite certain that Echo finds them more annoying than anything else. The leader of them bonded with Hunter over having annoying little brothers, but he can hardly tolerate them, and the other two seem to feel the same. The one who loves them is Fives. Of course, it's Fives who loves them because he died before they ever met. Sometimes, Crosshair hates his life. He's pretty sure Fives would adopt them into his squad if he had the chance. Doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing though, but hey, at least they grudgingly admitted that Crosshair was right about not meeting Echo this soon.

Of course, that disappears the moment they find out about Rex and Cody. Because they want to meet them, too. Rex… tolerates them, but barely, if Crosshair is reading him right. Cody likes them, though. That, at least, is one thing which hasn't changed.

A full half year has passed since Crosshair first met little him when everything… changes.

He's in the Batch's barracks when it happens, Wrecker sprawled across his lap while little him is half sitting on his back, hanging over his shoulders. Tech is sitting on the edge of the table, talking a mile a minute about something that lost Crosshair half-way in, and Hunter leaning against Crosshair's side, just listening.

The door opens.

And they all freeze because it shouldn't be opening. No one comes here. The Kaminoans always send messages to summon them when they want them. They don't come here, either. So what –

It's not a Kaminoan or trainer or even a random reg – like Fives – who enters.

No, it's Hunter. His Hunter. Crosshair would recognize that armor anywhere, even if it's been repainted. For a moment, he can't breathe, and he doesn't need to see Hunter's face to see his shock when he sees him. He stills, and the others crowd in behind him. Tech. Wrecker. Echo. Omega – who's older now, taller, and she has some random pieces of armor or at least what's supposed to pass as armor.

"Crosshair," Hunter says, like he can't quite believe it, pulling off his helmet. Crosshair moves to stand, and little him and Wrecker move out of the way to let Crosshair up. Hunter looks different, too. There's pain in his eyes, and he looks tired. He looks not unlike Crosshair feels, and emotions choke him.

"I'm sorry," Crosshair blurts out because of all the things he wanted to say to his brothers, this was the top on the list. He never thought he'd get the chance, and that he is means more than he'll ever be able to say. "Hunter, I'm sorry." His voice breaks on the words, and Hunter holds out a hand to him, silent and inviting.

Crosshair takes it without hesitation, squeezing, before letting go to pull Hunter into a crushing embrace. He doesn't even realize he's crying until the first gasped sob escapes. "It's okay," Hunter whispers, his arms tightening around him, and from the way his voice is shaking, Crosshair knows he's crying, too. "I'm here."

"I thought you were gone," Crosshair confesses, pressing his face against Hunter's shoulder. He's shaking, and he can't seem to stop. "I thought –" He can't even say it, doesn't know how to even begin to speak about the months of loneliness, of being certain that his brothers were gone forever because they didn't exist anymore.

"Yeah," Wrecker says, and his arms wrap around Crosshair from behind. His voice wavers. "We thought it was just us."

"I missed you," he answers, and he only says it because they need to know, because he has to make sure they know. It's been – so long. Too long.

"I know," Hunter promises, "And we missed you too."

Crosshair pulls back from him so he can twist around and bury himself in Wrecker's arms, clinging to him like he used to when they were young. "I forgot how big you are," he admits with a shaky half-laugh. Wrecker only squeezes him tighter.

He lets go to hug Tech, too, because it's only fair. The fierceness with which Tech turns it almost surprises him, but it shouldn't because they only ever had each other when they were young, and the bonds they formed then have never changed. They're pieces of each other, of a whole, and if they're not together, they're not complete.

The kid comes for him next, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tightly. "I know we never got to know each other," she tells him, "But I want to."

He strokes a hand over her hair and hugs her, too, because he might not have known her or even missed her a fraction of how much he did his brothers, but she wanted them. Even when he was with the Empire, that meant something to him. It still does. He thought about her, during the months here, but he was hesitant to find this past version of her, knowing that even if he met her, he'd have to leave her where she was. It didn't seem fair to her, to do that, so he never made that step, but he regrets it now.

"Yeah," he says, "You too."

Echo doesn't hug him, but he does touch his shoulder, his grip firm and grounding, reassuring, comforting, and Crosshair nods to him wiping his tears away, as he turns back to the younger thems. They're cuddled together on little him's bunk, watching.

"You've been here all this time?" Hunter – his Hunter asks.

"Yes," Crosshair answers, "I woke up here, and… I became a trainer for the clones. I met them half a year ago."

Worry flashes across Wrecker's face. "You were on Kamino that whole time?"

Crosshair freezes. He hasn't thought about it for so long, how the Empire left him there, and he doesn't – want to talk about it. He looks away, not answering.

"Stars, Crosshair," Hunter breathes, "If – if we'd known, we…" He trails off, glancing at the younger thems. He doesn't want to get into their complicated history in front of them anymore than Crosshair does. But he still understands Hunter's meaning. They would have come back for him if they'd known.

"I know," he replies, "But that's not what I would have wanted. I was… too angry to listen." This conversation is one best kept for private, though. "Where have you been, all this time?"

"We wandered for a while," Hunter explains, "But then Echo convinced us to go to Coruscant, to tell the Jedi. It… there was a whole mess there, I'll tell you later, but the Jedi Council wasn't keen on getting involved, and finally, Gen- Padawan Skywalker and his master came here to resolve the situation themselves."

"Anakin wants to give us freedom," Echo interjects. "He promised us that he would free all the clones."

Crosshair wants to say that they're already free, that they always have been, but he knows that's not true. He thought it was, but it wasn't, and he didn't realize how true that was until… he came here. And then he had no one anyway, so it didn't seem to matter.

"What does that mean?" little Hunter questions, frowning, the first time they've spoken.

Omega is the one who answers. "It means you can do whatever you want." She's staring at them with longing, and Crosshair knows what it is that she wants. "I'm Omega," she continues, "Your sister."

"There are no female clones," little Tech protests.

"Not – no, there's just me," she tells them with a smile. "I was Nala Se's lab assistant. The other me is probably still there."

"What if we want to be soldiers?" Crosshair doesn't know why little him's question hurts but it does.

"Everything is changing," Hunter replies, and there's a soft gentleness to his voice. It abruptly reminds Crosshair of the way he talked to Omega. "I don't know that there will be a war, or that the Republic will need an army, but we'll find a place for you. For all of you. I promise."

"We're gonna stay together, okay?" Crosshair says to them in case they were worried about that. "I'm not leaving. I'm not." He left his brothers once, he can admit that now, and he won't do it again. He made mistakes, but so did they. That doesn't make it alright, what they did to each other, but they're back together again, and that – that matters more than anything else ever could.

Final Notes: Reviews are always appreciated! ^-^

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