Author's Note: the prompts for this one were "the worst place to find a skeleton" and "being hunted" from Tech's POV! Enjoy!

All of the buildings were dark; not a soul showed up on his scanner. Destruction was painted on every aspect of the small town, though it looked surprisingly manual. No blaster marks or debris from explosions. Instead, Tech's eyes trailed along the deep axe marks around the smashed doors and windows.

The once well-maintained walkways were now slumped and sunken, and through the fog Tech spotted lumps in the mud that didn't take much to imagine what they had once been.

"Guess we found the inhabitants," Crosshair's drawl was as cold as the wet mud.

"What's left of them," Wrecker tacked on unnecessarily.

Tech did a scan just for something to do, but it didn't tell him anything he hadn't already guessed. A mangled corpse was steadily rotting into the swamp below them. Cause of death…undeterminable at this stage of decay.

"Something odd happened here," Hunter told them, looking around at the portion of the village they could see. "We need to find out what."

"I suggest we start there," Tech said, pointing ahead.

Hunter followed his suggestion, and they ducked into the largest of the hut-like structures that had yet to sink into the grey swamp.

"Hiding isn't our style." Wrecker groused.

Tech ignored the comment for about half a second before the urge to correct it became too intense to ignore.

"We are not hiding. We are investigating. And that requires thorough examination of the evidence the previous residents left behind."

Wrecker continued to grumble, repeating him in a mocking tone, but Hunter spoke over their petulant squad mate.

"Let's see what we can find. Spread out," he gave three short gestures with his left hand and the team spread out in a practiced fan.

Except Tech. He was naturally already at the place he should be investigating first.

He was aware of the others tromping over the debris as they entered, but he just sighed rather than try to stop and correct them. He'd figure it out himself; it was easier that way.

Most things were.

His eyes scanned his designated slice of the room and then began focusing in on the details, mentally sorting out what was potentially important from what was useless faster than even the most advanced scanner.

18% faster, as a matter of fact, according to the last time he'd tested himself.

He ignored the damage to the crusty ceiling and walls, determining the cause to be environmental. It would take constant attention to keep a structure like this from succumbing to the harsh elements. At least that gave him an idea of how long this structure had been neglected.

The destroyed furniture was more interesting, tossed this way and that. His eyes followed the pattern of impact and determined that it was indicative of a struggle rather than a particular natural event. A lighter, wider piece was covering the floor, and he lifted it, calculating a higher chance at uncovering tracks. He was correct, and followed the first set of prints he spotted. He was also doing his absolute best to ignore the crashing sounds coming from the other room in the complex hive of metal huts.

The dragging, languishing steps led him to a heavy door, sealed off and out of power. It almost blended in with the dark, slate-colored walls of the hut. Something about it was particularly ominous, but Tech pushed the feeling down. He didn't intend to entertain those kinds of thoughts until he had data to back it up.

Tech stopped, using his datapad to scan the door. It confirmed his suspicions that the power was long dead, but he frowned at the small, square device. He had been expecting more information, but that was all the data it returned. He couldn't see what was beyond. It was as if the door was thick and reinforced, like a blast door, despite looking rather ordinary.

He took another glance around, reassessing his assumption that this had been a domicile. Broken signs, furniture for holding files, and a busted alarm system confirm his new suspicion. This was, or had been, some kind of treasury.

Which meant that the reinforced door in front of him had to be the vault.

Hunter materialized beside him, either having noticed the trail as well, or not having found anything interesting in his area of investigation. He didn't speak, but his energy was expectant. Tech had long theorized that, similar to how clones were programed to be obedient to Jedi, the clones of lower rank were made to be inherently more submissive to those of high rank, more so than just their intensive training would lead to. And despite Hunter's casual attitude towards rank, Tech found himself reporting without needing to be asked.

"Typically, in the aftermath of a disaster, I would expect the vault door to be open. Either emptied by the fleeing leadership or plundered afterwards by scavengers. I can't get a reading through the door, however," he shrugged, waving his datapad uselessly. "I suspect the victims of what happened here attempted to barricade themselves within. If there are any survivors, this is the most likely place they'll be."

Hunter scanned the area again, face screwed up in a trademark grimace. Tech knew exactly what he was thinking, and he agreed. There were too many unknowns on this mission, too many places where things to go wrong.

"Wrecker?" the sergeant called.

Their other two teammates appeared through the arched, narrow doorway, which seemed even narrower when Wrecker's hulking frame passed through it. However, it wasn't his size and strength Hunter was calling upon.

"Alright! Finally!" Wrecker enthuse, diagnosing the situation immediately.

Hunter stepped out of the way, but Tech stayed where he was, pointing helpfully at the weak joint he had already identified with his scan. But Wrecker ignored him, and instead ran his large, gloved hands over the door in a crude physical scan.

"I have already identified a weak point-"

Wrecker came to the same conclusion before he finished speaking, and Tech felt further annoyance bubble up within him. It was a loss of only a few seconds, but in the situations they tended to get into, every second mattered. Efficiency was important to him, but sometimes he felt like the only one who cared.

His mental griping paused when Wrecker attached the magnetic explosives, and they all scrambled for cover.

A controlled explosion rattled his teeth, and the heavy vault door blew loose.

Hunter coughed beside him, and he stifled another irritated sigh. Hunter was always the first to remove his helmet, even if it was unadvisable. Rather than berate his sergeant, Tech opted to continue with the investigation. Dropping his visor to see through the smoke and dust, he gripped his trusty scanner and headed forward. Wrecker had already pried the broken door away from the entrance and was now standing in the way.

"Let's see what they were hiding," he said, heading into the unlit area.

"If there's anything left," Crosshair's snippy comment was expected, but still Tech found it irritating.

Which was no doubt why he said it.

He had been a particular pill on this mission.

Tech stood in the entrance and took a new scan while the others barreled ahead. Crunching footsteps through the dust echoed in his ears and he observed that the vault was larger than expected.

When he realized what he was reading he immediately reached for his flashlight and aimed the precise beam at the floor. Chalky white bones shone back at him, calcium melting into a spongey, hole-filled substance. But some things were still crystal clear. The toothmarks on the bones, the jagged way they were broken. And the only full skeleton, which appeared to have begun eating his own feet before perishing.

Tech frowned, and then the pieces began falling into place. They had come to this planet to search for what had wiped out this entire colony. Command suspected it was unlikely Separatist interference, but they were sent in anyway. A small squad to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Based on what little information they had received in their briefing, Tech had theorized that it was likely caused by a natural disaster or, less likely, civil unrest. But what Tech read on his datapad now was not indicative of either of those things.

They were looking at the remains of a gruesome scene: a monster, a cannibal, locked in here with his victims.

His eyes flicked around the room, the flashlight a half a second behind. When Wrecker and Crosshair stepped out of the way to let him see what was stashed in the far corner, it all came together.

Hazmat suits, gloves, masks, upended medkits...

What is this?" Hunter asked, and realization crept up Tech's spine on insectile legs.

A lesser man would have panicked or screamed, but Tech was completely calm when he spoke: "Hunter. We need to leave the area immediately."

A glanced spared backwards completed the picture. Wrecker and Crosshair had plowed right through them, but Tech mentally pieced the scene back together. More dead skeletons, piled up against the vault door, as though they had been trying to claw their way out.

Then he heard their sergeant cough again, and the horror raised his voice to a whole new pitch.

"Get out! Now!"

The inhabitants hadn't been hiding in here. They had been locked in to prevent the spread of infection.

Why wouldn't Hunter ever wear his kriffing helmet?

It had been three days. Three of the longest days of his entire life.

This damned swamp, an unforgiving and densely forested wetland, had become his personal hell. The intense electromagnetic interference from the storms wouldn't have ordinarily been a problem for them, not with Hunter leading the way. But the infection had affected him faster than Tech had anticipated.

Typically, their biology lent itself well to fighting off the various diseases they came into contact with. They were also vaccinated for a massive array of planned planet-fall. But this one had reacted differently. It worked with unbelievable speed once it infected the sergeant, going from a cough, to a deadly fever, to absolute madness in a matter of hours. The last Tech had seen of Hunter, his eyes were completely wild, nothing human left in them at all.

It was only thanks to his quick thinking, Wrecker's strength, and Crosshair's complete lack of reservation about punching their squad-mate in the stomach as hard as he could, that they had survived Hunter turning feral.

He had escaped, however, and vanished into the fog, leaving them lost and without a leader.

They had been trying to get him back to the Marauder, and were now lost in the swamp. His holomap didn't work, and even his best guess had led them into an impassable tangle of thick, grasping roots of trees whose trunks were webbed like spidery veins. A death trap in front of them, the feeling of being watched behind them. And the unending storm beating down on them from above, bashing them into the swamp, which lapped up at their legs in dark, black waves of thick mud.

Things were not looking good.

They were making terrible progress. They fought, they argued. Despite his repeated attempts to acquiesce to the group decision, Crosshair always found a way to disagree with him. The tension was made worse knowing they needed to do something to help Hunter before it was too late. But, as Tech reminded them, their patient was in a murderous rage and would likely try to kill them as soon as look at them.

The mud was thick and sticky, the fog dense and the humidity clouding his goggles and visor. He tried to wipe them clear with the pad of his glove. Crosshair and Wrecker could move faster than him, so he was in front, struggling to fulfill both his role and Hunter's. He heard Crosshair's irritated breathing, despite there being enough distance between them to fill his coms with the crackle of static. The sinking feeling of his disapproval was heavy in the pit of his stomach.

He was exhausted, and he was lost.

The threat generated from one of their own was something he really hadn't ever anticipated having to face. It was the one blind spot he had allowed himself. The idea that he could always trust in his squad. It was stupid; none of them were invulnerable. But it felt so wrong to plan to use their weaknesses. Wrecker's bad eye left him open on his left, despite training designed to compensate. Tech had told him so many times to cover it up, but Wrecker's enthusiasm always got the better of him. Cross could be easily blinded by a simple bright light without his helmet to auto-adjust for him. And he was almost as bad as Hunter when it came to taking it off. It was something they both needed to work on.

Hunter…his enhanced senses were usually a benefit, but they could be used against him.

Everyone had a weakness. A vulnerability to be exploited.

A coughing breath that didn't sound anything at all like a sob wracked its way out of his chest.

Because Tech didn't want to use their vulnerabilities against his team. Even if Hunter was a threat, it made Tech sick to think about using one of Wrecker's flashbang grenades while Cross engaged him. He was his squad mate; not a brother, not a fellow soldier, but something more. Something closer.

He wasn't sure he was going to be given a choice if he couldn't get the situation under control soon, however.

His muscles burned, his body begging for rest it wouldn't receive. He opted to ignore it, but over the last three days, it was becoming harder and harder. The sinking feeling of failure was drawing closer, as though tied to his ankle on a string that was cinching closer, growing heavier. Slowing him down. Making him the perfect target for the one hunting them.

The weak link in the chain.

He had never been as fast or as strong as his teammates. They were expected to perform so highly as commandos, even above the rigorous training the average clones received. He took pride in it; after all, they were better than average troopers, even more so than other commandos. But it was never enough. He was never quite enough. He made up for it; his intelligence, memory, and cognitive abilities more than made up for it in the ways that mattered. But there were times when good ideas, schema, and photographic memory weren't enough. Sparring matches often brought him to the verge of tears, the frustration burning his cheeks until he'd retreat back to their barracks to hide. His strategies were flawless, obviously, but just because he knew what needed to be done, didn't mean his body could do it.

Failing hurt more than any of Wrecker's breathtaking chokeslams, Hunter's mean gut-punches, or Crosshair's barbed words. Without their leader and, he realized, without his squad mates to make up for his inadequacies, his frustration was morphing into all-out terror.

Something moved behind him and he jerked around. Wrecker was gone, despite having been right behind him. When had those heavy footsteps fallen silent? Had he fallen behind? Been attacked? When had the breathing he heard in his helmet become only his own?

His mouth immediately began to form Crosshair's name, but he knew he was gone before he even turned his head. Crosshair could appear and disappear at will, but Tech always could anticipate where he'd be.

And with a single full turn to take in his position, nearly crashing into long, tangling black roots that stretched out at him, Tech knew he wasn't going to spot him.

He knew he was alone.

There was a second noise from the fog, but his chest was so tight it didn't allow for the sharp intake of breath he instinctually tried to take.

This was it; he braced against the thin, nightmarish branches of the swamp tree.

His eyes searched the sea of grey fog before the glimmer of a short vibroknife pierced through.

He would have recognized that knife anywhere.

This was it, and he was afraid.