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areyoufuckingcrazy · 9 days ago

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“Dark Water”

Chapter Seven: Lula’s Guardian

The Bad Batch x Reader

The clatter of rain never stopped on Kamino. It was like living beneath the pulse of a war drum, distant and relentless. But inside the Fett quarters, it was strangely quiet.

You leaned against the reinforced plastoid railing of the mezzanine walkway, staring down at the domed courtyard below — a place reserved for off-duty clone instructors, personal guests, and Jango’s private space.

He approached from behind, bootsteps familiar as your own.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jango said, stopping beside you.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d be off the grid all day.”

“I wasn’t.” He glanced at you, the faintest of smirks playing on his face. “You were busy impressing my brats.”

You huffed a short laugh. “One of them said I’d probably miss if I threw a grenade.”

“Crosshair?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t take it personally. He talks like that about me.”

You turned toward him fully. The years had been kind to Jango, but they’d etched sharper lines around his mouth, deepened the shadows under his eyes. He still moved like a predator — calm, calculating — but there was a weight to him now. One you hadn’t seen before Kamino.

“Why me?” you asked.

Jango raised a brow.

“For Clone Force 99. Why did you send my name to the Kaminoans?”

His gaze sharpened. “Because you’re a warrior, and you don’t flinch.”

“Not the only one like that.”

“No,” he said. “But the only one like that who could handle them.”

You paused. “You know they don’t like me.”

“They don’t have to,” Jango said evenly. “They just have to live.”

He turned away, motioning for you to follow down the stairs.

“C’mon. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Jango’s Quarters was more spartan than you expected. A weapons locker, an old beskar chest pushed against the wall, and scattered datapads with Mandalorian script. In the center of the room sat a small boy, maybe five — tousled dark hair, oversized training tunic, chewing absently on a ration bar.

He looked up the moment Jango entered.

“Bu’ad,” Jango said gently. “Come here.”

The boy bounded up instantly, grinning.

You blinked. “That’s… Boba?”

“Boba,” Jango said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is your vod’ika. Not by blood, but close enough.”

You crouched down, smiling. “You’re taller than I expected.”

Boba beamed. “I’m gonna be just like my buir.”

“I don’t doubt that,” you said. “He’s a legend.”

“I know,” Boba whispered loudly, as if it were the greatest secret in the galaxy.

Jango chuckled. “Alright, go run drills with the nanny droid for a bit.”

Boba nodded, then scampered off toward the adjoining room — though not without one last curious glance at you.

When he was gone, Jango poured two cups of black caf and handed one to you.

You sat across from him.

“So,” you said, “you’re a father now.”

He nodded slowly. “By choice.”

“And the clones?”

His jaw tightened. “Not by choice.”

You studied him. “How did it happen, Jango?”

He took a sip, then leaned back in the chair.

“War’s always coming. One way or another. The Kaminoans were looking for a template. Someone clean, efficient, deadly. I fit the bill. They made me an offer.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Credits?”

“That. And Boba.”

“You asked for a son?”

“I asked for one clone. Unaltered. No growth acceleration. No behavioral programming. He’s… mine.”

“That’s not nothing,” you said quietly.

“No,” Jango agreed. “It isn’t.”

A long pause stretched between you.

“You trust them?” you asked. “The Kaminoans?”

He snorted. “Not for a second. But they know better than to cross me.”

“And the people behind them?”

Jango’s eyes didn’t flinch, but something behind them hardened.

“What people?” he asked mildly.

You studied his face. That cold calm you’d seen a dozen times before jobs went south. That silence full of what he wouldn’t say.

“I’m not stupid,” you said quietly. “Someone had to fund this. Someone gave Kamino the specs. The tech. A million clones don’t just grow in a vacuum.”

He met your gaze, unreadable.

“I took a job,” he said. “That’s all.”

“And the war they’re making?”

“That’s not my problem.”

You leaned forward. “You don’t believe that.”

He held your gaze for a long time.

Then said, with deliberate finality: “I made sure Boba would live. That’s all I need.”

You let the silence sit.

Then rose.

“Thanks for the caf.”

“Any time,” Jango said.

You reached the door before he called after you.

“They’re not ready,” he said. “Clone Force 99. But they could be. They just need someone to show them what survival really means.”

You didn’t turn around.

“That’s why you chose me, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

⸻

Tipoca City – Training Dome 6B

It was supposed to be a routine drill.

Obstacle navigation, simulated fire zones, and basic squad cohesion maneuvers — things the regs had been doing in their sleep since they were six.

But nothing with Clone Force 99 was ever routine.

“Crosshair, left flank! Tech, cover his six!” you barked into the comm.

“I am covering his six—he keeps moving erratically!” Tech snapped back.

“I’m not erratic,” Crosshair drawled, “I’m calculating angles.”

Wrecker laughed as he barreled through the debris field like a walking tank, clipping a wall and knocking a droid AI unit clean off its feet. “I got ‘em!”

“You weren’t supposed to punch it!” you shouted.

“It worked, didn’t it?!”

Hunter slid into cover near your position, panting slightly. “We’re never gonna pass this one.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your earpiece. “Tech, Hunter’s lead. Follow his cues. Crosshair, stay high. Wrecker—try not to demolish the course again.”

“Hey, no promises!”

They grumbled, but obeyed.

Mostly.

You watched from the command booth as they regrouped. The feed flickered with their biosigns — elevated, but stable. For all their disorganization, they improvised well. Adapted in ways most clones couldn’t.

They didn’t think like soldiers.

They thought like survivors.

And something about that pulled at you.

The drill concluded in chaotic fashion — Wrecker yelling triumphantly, Tech ranting about misaligned blast gates, and Crosshair muttering about “dead weight” (probably referring to everyone).

Hunter was quiet, but proud. You could see it in the way he adjusted his gloves. Not a boast. Just recognition.

You dismissed them with a wave. “Ten-minute cooldown. Then we debrief.”

Wrecker dropped to the floor, sweating through his cadet tunic. “I think I dislocated a building.”

Tech was already halfway through recalibrating his HUD. “The emitter pattern was wrong. The entire drill’s skewed if we’re measuring timing.”

Crosshair had his arms crossed. “We still beat the regs. By thirty-two seconds.”

You folded your arms. “You’re not competing with the regs. You’re competing with what you could be.”

Hunter gave you a long, unreadable look.

⸻

They sat in a loose semi-circle, sharing a stolen snack pack from the mess. You didn’t interrupt — not yet. You watched.

Wrecker tore a ration bar in half and handed the bigger piece to Crosshair, who scoffed but took it anyway.

Tech was drawing something in the dirt with a stim stylus — probably mapping out the course angles again.

Hunter was still. Always observing.

You sat beside them.

Crosshair raised a brow. “Didn’t know you were off-duty.”

“I’m not.”

Wrecker scooted closer, like a happy tooka. “You should be. That was a long one.”

You chuckled. “For you, maybe.”

There was a pause — not awkward. Just… uncertain.

Then Tech spoke, voice surprisingly tentative. “Your last simulation. The one with Skirata and the others. That wasn’t standard training.”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Crosshair narrowed his eyes. “Was it real?”

You looked at him. “It was earned.”

Another pause.

Wrecker spoke next, quieter than usual. “Do you think we’ll ever be good enough for real missions?”

You blinked. “You already are. You just don’t trust each other enough yet.”

Hunter’s gaze didn’t move, but you could see the thought turning in his eyes.

Crosshair leaned back. “We’re not like the others.”

“Good,” you said. “The others don’t scare the Kaminoans.”

They all looked at you.

“I’ve seen the reports,” you continued. “Heard what Nala Se says when she thinks I’m not listening. You terrify them. Because you’re unpredictable. Because you think.”

Tech frowned. “That’s… good?”

You nodded. “It means you’re alive.”

Silence again.

Not because they didn’t believe you.

But because they wanted to.

You stood. “Tomorrow, we run that course again. No arguments. No bickering.”

Wrecker groaned.

“But,” you added, glancing at each of them, “this time… we do it together.”

You turned to leave.

Then paused.

“And Wrecker?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you for not punching me today.”

He grinned. “I thought about it!”

You smirked. “I know.”

⸻

The facility was quiet this late at night. Only the hum of climate control vents and the ever-present drum of Kaminoan rain filled the corridors. Lights dimmed to blue, casting the pristine white walls in an eerie, oceanic glow.

You didn’t expect to find one of your cadets awake.

But there he was.

Hunter sat cross-legged on the edge of the elevated mat platform in the sparring room, head bowed, palms resting against his knees. His hair was messy — pushed back like always, but looser, more boyish in the soft light. He didn’t look up when you walked in.

“I could hear you breathing from the hallway,” he said quietly.

“Guess your enhancements work,” you replied, stepping onto the mat.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

You crossed your arms, waiting.

Finally, he said, “I don’t think I can do this.”

The words were nearly lost beneath the rain.

You said nothing, letting them settle in the air.

“I keep trying to lead them,” he went on, “but they don’t listen. Tech thinks he’s smarter than everyone. Crosshair acts like we’re wasting his time. Wrecker—” he paused, half-smiling. “He’s great, but he’s like a speeder with the brakes ripped out.”

You sat down across from him.

“I’m supposed to be the one who holds them together,” he said, voice soft. “But we’re defective. That’s what they call us. What if they’re right?”

Your gaze stayed steady. “Are you asking me that, or are you just scared they are?”

His eyes flicked to yours for the first time.

“Both,” he admitted.

You exhaled slowly. “Hunter… do you think Jango Fett was perfect?”

The question caught him off guard. “He’s the template.”

“He’s also stubborn, moody, dangerous, and doesn’t work well with others.” You leaned forward. “You ever seen Jango follow an order he didn’t like?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.” You tilted your head. “But you know what he does do? Survive. Adapt. Think on his feet. Just like you.”

Hunter frowned. “But we’re not like him.”

“No. You’re better.”

He looked up, startled.

“You have the things that make him dangerous,” you said. “But you’ve also got the things that make him human.” You tapped your temple. “You feel things. You care about the people around you. Even when it scares you.”

“I’m not scared,” Hunter said quickly — too quickly.

You gave him a look.

“…Okay. A little.”

You smiled faintly. “Good. Means you’re not a droid.”

He glanced down at his gloves, fingers flexing. “You said today that we need to… weaponise what makes us different.”

You nodded.

“But how?”

“You learn to understand it. Own it. Use it like a blade.”

You reached into your utility belt and pulled a training knife — blunted, but weighted. You set it down between you.

“This,” you said, “is nothing but durasteel until you know how to hold it. Then it becomes something dangerous. Your squad is the same.”

Hunter looked at the knife, then at his reflection in the polished floor beneath.

“What if I mess up?”

“You will.”

He blinked.

“You will mess up,” you repeated. “They all do. Even Jango. Even me. But it’s not about getting it right every time. It’s about showing up again the next day. Doing better. Being better.”

Hunter was quiet for a long time.

Then, barely louder than the rain, he asked: “Do you think we’ll make it?”

You studied the boy in front of you — bruised from drills, uncertain of his own value, and yet already carrying the weight of others.

You reached out and set a hand on his shoulder.

“I think,” you said, “you’ll change everything.”

He looked at you — really looked — and for the first time, you saw something settle behind his eyes.

Belief.

Not fully formed, not solid yet.

But real.

And growing.

⸻

Tipoca City – Clone Cadet Barracks, 0340 Hours

The halls of Tipoca were silent save for the ever-present storm thundering against the transparisteel windows. The clones were all asleep — or powered down, as some trainers cruelly referred to it — resting in their rows of bunk beds like equipment on a rack.

But not Wrecker.

He kicked off his sheets for the third time, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His breaths came shallow and uneven. In the dream, there was fire — not like the plasma blasts from drills. Real fire. Screams that didn’t sound simulated. A feeling in his chest like he was drowning even though everything was burning.

He woke with a choked cry.

And didn’t want to go back to sleep.

So he slipped out.

⸻

Your Quarters – Ten Minutes Later

You were half asleep when the soft chime sounded at your door.

Odd.

Most of the staff didn’t call on you unless it was morning drills or alerts. You rolled out of bed in loose sleep gear and tapped the panel.

Wrecker stood there.

Helmetless, eyes wide, lower lip trembling just slightly — just enough to break your heart.

“I… had a bad dream,” he mumbled.

Your voice softened instinctively. “Come in, ad’ika.”

He stepped in slowly, trying to be brave, trying not to act ten. But his shoulders hunched like someone expecting to be sent away.

You gestured to the couch near the window. “You want to talk about it?”

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then shrugged. “I don’t remember much. Just… fire. I didn’t like it.”

You knelt in front of him, resting your arms on your knees. “I used to get bad dreams too. Still do sometimes.”

“Really?” he looked up, eyes wide.

You nodded. “Some are just my mind being noisy. Others… are memories I wish I could forget.”

He looked at his hands, uncertain. “What do you do when you have them?”

You reached over to your footlocker and pulled something small from within. It was a little worn — one ear flopped more than the other — but it was clean, patched up over the years.

A tooka doll.

“I used to sleep with this,” you said softly. “When things got bad. My riduur gave it to me when I was young.”

Wrecker took it like it was made of glass. “Can I name it?”

“Of course.”

He squinted, thinking hard.

“Lula,” he said finally. “She looks like a Lula.”

You smiled. “Perfect.”

There was a long pause. Wrecker clutched Lula close to his chest, looking at the couch. Then, without looking up:

“…Can I sleep in your bed? Just for tonight?”

Your answer came instantly.

“Yes.”

You had drifted into sleep again, Wrecker curled against your side with Lula tucked between his arms. His breathing was deep and steady — peaceful for once.

Then.

Knock knock.

You groaned softly, sitting up.

At the door stood Tech, hair rumpled and datapad clutched like a lifeline.

“I calculated the odds of Wrecker surviving a fall off the barracks bunk unassisted. They’re low,” he said. “But I see he’s with you. So…”

You opened the door fully.

“…Can I stay, too?”

You nodded, stepping aside.

He curled up at the foot of your bed, back to Wrecker, datapad clutched like a teddy bear.

You were barely settling again when the third interruption came.

“Move,” Crosshair grumbled.

You opened the door mid-knock this time. “I didn’t expect you.”

He scowled. “It’s cold.”

You tilted your head.

“…And quiet.”

You didn’t say a word. Just opened the covers.

He climbed in begrudgingly, somehow managing to take up minimal space. He curled tight, facing away from everyone — until your arm wrapped around him instinctively.

He didn’t even protest.

He was asleep in seconds.

Hunter was last.

He didn’t knock. Just stood in the doorway, eyes soft.

“I felt them get up,” he said quietly.

You moved over, giving him space.

“They’re just kids,” you murmured as he settled beside you.

He nodded once.

“So are you,” you added.

“…I don’t feel like it.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because tonight, you don’t have to be.”

The storm outside softened.

Inside your quarters, five bodies lay tangled together in sleep. Lula dangled from Wrecker’s arm. Crosshair had shifted until his head rested against your shoulder. Tech was still cradling his pad, but your blanket had somehow ended up wrapped around all of them.

Your bed was too small.

Your heart was too full.

⸻

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