#crosshair and mayday

[talesfrommedinastation]

My redneck neighbor Doug watches 'The Bad Batch': The Outpost

As per many people's requests, I've collected a series of texts and Facebook messages from Doug when he watched certain episodes of everyone's favorite Copy Paste Boi show.

Some he was quite pithy on ('Ryan-from-Accounting goes fast but not fast enough to get away from the Bitch Wife Laura'), and others...well, he got excitable, to put it mildly.

Here's one of the more deranged ones, Season 2, Episode 12, 'The Outpost'. Or as Doug calls it: "The Daddy Warcrimes Christmas Special."

CW for Language like you wouldn't believe. Doug says "you'll need a permission slip from your momma to read this, I guess."

-----

Daddy Warcrimes is waiting by the Empire's equivalent of a windowless van, because comfort is just not his thing and he really wants the experience of smuggling cocaine across the border one of these days.

Some bitch who looks like she works at a bank is telling these clones that their extended warranty is up. I wanna bring her a bag of pennies and make her count it before I deposit it because I'm sick like that.

So here comes in SOME BLOND JACKASS. Mother of Hell do I hate this guy. Can I just tell you how much I hate him? I hate him like I hate the Crimson Tide, like I hate February, like I hate my mother-in-law. Hate hate hate. 

So Daddy Warcrimes, SOME BLOND JACKASS, and some homies get into Floating Probable Cause to lay waste to an unsuspecting Third World country or whatever.

Well, I was wrong! Looks like Elsa and her frozen fingers took over this dump. Disney owns both, so why not. The cold never bothered them anyway. Nope, they’re at somebody’s nasty old storage shed. Why does this remind me of visiting my sister in Wyoming?

Oh, who is this no-frills, salt-of-the-earth, son-of-a-bitch? Is that tanned Kurt Russell? No? It’s Sassy Park Ranger! I like him already. If he was my boss I’d actually show up to work on time and sober, or late and hung over, either way, it’d be a good time with the man. He just seems cool and chill and a nice dude. I bet he’s got homemade beef jerky in his locker and his beard always smells like cigar smoke. 

OH SHUT UP STUPID BLOND JACKASS, Jesus Christ I’ve never wanted to hit someone with a folding chair so hard in my life. CALL HIM COMMANDER.

Aw, Sassy Park Ranger’s being nice to Daddy Warcrimes, maybe Daddy Warcrimes will share the Columbian nose candy in the back of the van with Sassy Park Ranger, and Sassy Park Ranger won’t ask about the sobbing family Daddy Warcrimes is probably holding for ransom in the back. It’s all about understanding each other. 

This is truly the Daddy Warcrimes Christmas special, snow and friendship and stuff. I hope this doesn’t end up with Daddy Warcrimes 86’ing Rudolph and the rest of the reindeer from the sky, that would traumatize the children. But this is the same studio that produced Bambi so who knows. Didn't he try killing a kid the first episode?

Oh man, Sassy Park Ranger’s lost a lot of his men, that’s real sad. Only two left, Jesus. SHUT UP BLOND JACKASS SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

(I won’t repeat it, but the amount of times that SHUT UP was texted was….something else- Dr. MM)

Sassy Park Ranger’s taking Daddy Warcrimes on a hike around the place in the middle of a blizzard, probably going to say hi to the yeti hooker they all frequent and show him how to write his name in the snow with pee. He’s such a good guy. If they go sledding I’d be so happy.

Oh, shit! Daddy Warcrimes remembers that he has a job and proceeds to cop some poor bastard in the leg so he can follow the trail of blood in the snow. What in the Fargo am I watching here, does Steve Buschemi show up at one point now. No sledding in this one, I guess.

Well there goes Sassy Park Ranger and Daddy Warcrimes on a heartwarming romp following a crippled burglar in the snow as he bleeds to death. Kevin McCallister would be so proud. Well, now, they found a dead body already. You know, at this point, if Daddy Warcrimes capped Santa in the head this show wouldn’t be less wholesome. 

Aw shit Daddy Warcrimes stepped on a landmine, but Sassy Park Ranger watched his training videos that HR made them sit through and disarms it. They’re having a nice convo, I really, really like Sassy Park Ranger. If he dies I’ll be so freaking mad. 

(I said nothing, FYI - Dr. MM)

Aw shit, they found the bunker of crazy white people with guns in the snow. It’s confirmed: the Daddy Warcrimes Christmas Special takes place in Wyoming. Are Daddy Warcrimes and Sassy Park Ranger facing off my brother-in-law and his branch of the VFW near Laramie? Those guys need hobbies besides doomsday prepping and getting drunk in the snow. It ain’t right. 

“After all we sacrificed”…man. I feel right here. Is this the child friendly version of Enemy at the Gate? Shit. Please these two bastards need to survive. I need a beer and I wanna hug my wife.  

Dr. Meat Muffin, please don't tell me you're letting your babies watch this show. They need that dog from Australia who has fun with her daddy, not this.

Oh shit, avalanche! 

Oh no, Sassy Park Ranger. Oh no, oh no. Oh, Daddy Warcrimes.

Thank Christ they made it! They’re gonna save him! They’re gonna save him.

Wait. What. 

WHAT THE FUCK, BLOND ASSHOLE. 

I HATE THIS JACKASS SO GODDAMNED MUCH, SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE, I WANNER SHOVE MY SOLDIER UP YOUR EMPIRE YOU STUPID DICK. 

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

Yay! Daddy Warcrimes finally took out his gun and 86’d that FUCK. CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY!! YAAAAAAY!!!!!

Man...I hope this ends okay for Daddy Warcrimes. I hope his brothers aren't just dicking around somewhere warm while he and the other bros are out dying.

Guess that'll be next episode?"

....Doug snapped SO HARD watching 'Pabu'. Brace yourselves.

[mother-mommy]

A universe where Mayday lives, him and Crosshair get away and go round the galaxy as a dynamic duo is the ultimate good ending argue with the wall

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.1 - Last Chance

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday, Clone Trooper Hexx, Clone Trooper Veetch, Lieutenant Nolan, Assorted Imperial Troopers Word Count: ~3045 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: The Imperial relief ship finally arrives, marking the end of the squad’s long posting on Barton IV. Mayday is surprised to see a CT-99 listed on the crew roster.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle Read Part 1.4 - No Way Out Read Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place

“COMMANDER!”

Veetch’s yell was enough to summon Mayday at a run. He weaved through the stacks of crates to where his squad member was bent over the computer console, tapping excitedly.

Veetch turned with a wild-eyed grin. “Transport is incoming.”

The young clone stepped aside, letting Mayday see the screen for himself. Disbelieving, Mayday scrolled through the transmission, reading and re-reading until he was sure it wasn't a joke.

“Go get Hexx,” he ordered, voice shaky with something between excitement and dread. “This is it, lad. We’re getting out of here.”

Veetch was off like a shot, the lethargy of their long posting dissipated as ready as snow in the sun. Before long the three clones were clustered round the screen, avidly reviewing the transmission.

It’s concise – what Mayday has come to expect from the Empire.

[Cargo retrieval ship scheduled to arrive 1600 Galactic Standard. Ensure all stored goods are ready for transport.]

What it doesn’t say is the bit that Mayday reads between the lines. That he and his boys are finally leaving Barton IV and all its bad memories behind them.

Hexx was reviewing the ship’s manifest with a frown.

“Says they’re bringing a contingent to secure the depot whilst the cargo is transferred,” he said with a dour tone, “but there’s no clone troopers listed here.”

Veetch leaned in to peer over his shoulder. “There’s one,” he pointed. “CT-9904.”

“The only one,” Hexx muttered.

“A CT-99?” said Mayday mildly, eyebrows raising towards his hairline. “I didn’t realise there were any left in service.”

Veetch glanced at him in confusion. “What’s different about a CT-99?” he asked.

“Defective clones,” supplied Hexx. “But still combat-worthy.”

“He must be one of the last ones,” said Mayday. “Well, a brother’s a brother. I’ll see if I can pin him down when they get here, find out what his view of this new Empire is.”

Hexx snorted. “If he’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ve heard the 99’s are notoriously difficult to work with. Only interested in others like them.”

“You’ll keep those thoughts to yourself,” said Mayday flatly, his commander’s tone brooking no argument. “If the rumours are true, and the Empire are phasing out clone troopers, those of us that are left need to stick together.”

“What do we need to do to get ready for the ship’s arrival?” asked Veetch, the plaintive note of hope in his voice almost painful to hear.

Mayday straightened with a humourless smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Better get out there and sweep the snow from the landing zone. First impressions count, boys. Let’s make sure this place is looking spick and span before the transport arrives.”

The wry sarcasm in his voice made the other two grin.

“You don’t mean that, Commander,” said Veetch, pulling on his helmet and tightening the fabric coverings.

Mayday huffed a laugh. “Sure I do. If the ship skids on ice when it lands and crashes into the depot, none of us are getting out of here.” He clapped a hand to Hexx’s shoulder, then copied Veetch in gathering his helmet.

“Come on. We’ll do this together.”

*

Mayday’s expectations hadn’t been low enough.

The narrow-faced Lieutenant who disembarked the transport had immediately started making demands which betrayed that he hadn’t bothered to read the briefing about the Barton IV depot.

“Your orders were to protect this facility and its cargo, yet this outpost is grossly unguarded. Where are the rest of your men?”

“Dead,” answered Mayday shortly. The man would have known that, if he’d read the brief. He glanced at his two remaining troopers, nodding in their direction. “Hexx, Veetch and I,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low and calm, “we’re all that’s left.”

To his mind, it was impossible to miss the sombre line of empty, damaged clone helmets lined up on the crates behind them. The lieutenant’s pale blue eyes slid past them, glazing past the evidence of their loss to settle in a scowl directed at Mayday once more.

“Your failings will be dealt with later,” he said haughtily. “For now, I am in charge until the cargo is transported.”

Mayday bristled at the man’s tone, bit back the reaction. Instead he settled for a sardonic smile, glancing at Hexx and Veetch with a barely-concealed eye roll. “I feel safer already,” he drawled, confident that his two troopers shared his thoughts. He couldn’t wait for this so-called Lieutenant to discover the realities of the outpost.

Sarcasm was the wrong approach. The small man’s pinched face narrowed further, mouth puckering in evident anger. “Look here, clone, you will speak to me with respect.”

The change was immediate. Hexx and Veetch, leaned back against the crates, straightened. Mayday dropped a hand to his side from his crossed arms, a flick of his fingers telling them to stand down.

“In my experience,” he said, drawing himself deliberately to his full height, “respect is something to be earned.”

Fourteen months of hardship had only weathered confidence into Mayday’s tone.

But he wasn’t prepared for what the Lieutenant threw at him next.

“Yet the Empire assigned you to this desolate rock, where you let the majority of your squad get killed.”

Mayday stiffened, a dark glower spreading to his face. He knew his own failings; knew the decisions he had made during the Clone Wars and since that had sent good soldiers to their deaths. The guilt of ordering patrols during the blizzard six months into the Barton IV posting haunted him.

Everything had gone wrong after that; but the rest of it could have been avoided. The rest of his squad died because the Empire ignored his requests for support time and again.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” he said when he had control of his voice once more, “how many missions have you commanded?”

The smaller man’s shoulders rose towards his ears with a defensive, embarrassed glower.

“That’s what I thought,” said Mayday softly.

Inside his chest his heart raced, adrenaline demanding his aching body take action. Instead he dragged his gaze away from the lieutenant, trying to make it seem like the man was beneath his attention.

“Boys, why don’t you help the new boss get situated?” he said, an order rather than a suggestion.

Wordlessly, Hexx and Veetch slipped past him. Hexx turned briefly, a questioning hand sign thrown his commander, but Mayday signalled for him to leave. He cast a pointed glance towards the dark armoured figure who had shadowed the lieutenant silently throughout the confrontation, rifle stowed at his back but seemingly tense and ready to fight.

Hexx merely nodded and turned to follow Veetch, less than gently escorting the Imperial lieutenant away from the sheltered space behind the stacked storage crates.

Once they had the space to themselves Mayday turned his attention to the silent sniper, assessing. The man was taller than Mayday or any of the brothers he had ever served with, yet he wore clone armour, albeit a dark-painted variant. It was enough to confirm this must be the defective clone from the ship’s crew manifest.

Mayday straightened, wondering how best to begin his overtures towards the newcomer. He’d never met a CT-99 before, which would have given him pause enough, and that was without knowing how deeply the man’s loyalty to the new Empire ran.

He decided that was the first thing he wanted to know. Forcing himself to relax back against the crates again, he stared into the impassive green visor and asked, “You, uh, know the lieutenant well?”

For a heartbeat he wondered if it was the right question. Then the sniper spoke, voice laden with acid.

“For about two hours,” he said, the derision in his tone clear.

Mayday huffed a relieved laugh. “Two hours too long, I bet,” he said, having decided he’d had enough of the man after only two minutes.

The only reply was a noncommittal ‘hmm’. Deciding this was better than meeting a severe response that berated him for disparaging the Imperial officer, he pressed on.

“So, what did you do to get stuck with this mission?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

The bite of sarcasm drew a genuine if bitter laugh from Mayday.

Lifting the portable heater, Mayday shuffled it forwards a few steps and dropped it in front of the other clone. The glow of the device did nothing to dispel the shadows that seemed to cling to the black-painted armour and shroud the sniper in darkness.

The 99 barely looked at him. Or perhaps sharp eyes were following him from inside the helmet – there was no way to tell. The man didn’t move; hadn’t moved, even to relax a little when the lieutenant departed.

“The name’s Mayday,” he offered after a pause.

The silence that followed was so long that Mayday was sure the other must be ignoring him, wishing for the conversation to end.

Then, so softly it was almost lost; “Crosshair.”

The commander raised his eyebrows, then let them fall back into a frown. The clone had been so slow to give his name, said it so uncertainly, that Mayday found himself wondering if it was the first time he had spoken it aloud since The Order reduced them to mere numbers in the eyes of the Empire.

“Crosshair,” Mayday repeated, and he gave weight to the name, added conviction. Desperately hoped that this small act of connection would bind the CT-99 to him in something approaching brotherhood.

He summoned a dry smile, and gestured around him with a flourish. “Well, Crosshair… welcome to The Outpost.”

*

“Why aren’t they loading the kriffing cargo already?” snarled Veetch in disappointment.

Hexx shared his younger companion’s frustration. The three remaining squad members from Barton IV were more than ready to leave, but the newly-arrived Lieutenant Nolan had other ideas. The Imperial Troopers who were with him with were filing from the ship and making their way into the depot. It seemed clear that a quick turnaround was less important than meticulously checking each crate for signs of tampering – as if the clones had any motive or desire to do such a thing.

They were stood in the shadow of the damaged storage building, fairly certain that it would keep them out of the way of the industry now overtaking the base, but they were hailed anyway.

“Hie, clones,” called a voice, neither friendly nor welcoming. Hexx glanced at Veetch and gave a weary shrug before stepping out from the sheltering wall, setting his body against the driving wind as they crossed to the Imperial Trooper.

“Yes?” he asked, scraping the thin reserves of his patience for some measure of politeness.

“Show my men where they’re bunking whilst we’re here.”

Hexx barely contained his derisive snort. “What?”

“The barracks area. Show my men the way through that maze of damned crates you created in the main building.”

“They’re not your barracks,” said Veetch uncertainly, hovering beside Hexx’s shoulder.

The Imperial Trooper stepped closer, looming into Veetch’s personal space. “Seeing as most of your squad is dead, I’m guessing there’s plenty of spare bunks. Go and show the others where to stow their kit.”

Veetch surged forwards in anger, but Hexx caught his arm before he could do anything.

“Yes sir,” he bit, making his voice as much like Mayday’s derisive drawl as he could manage. His commander had set the tone for this encounter in the words exchanged with Nolan; Hexx would follow suit.

He hauled the younger clone away with him, tightening his grip when he felt Veetch fight against him.

“What are you doing?” hissed Veetch, a shaky, outraged whisper. “You’re not doing what he said? After that?”

Hexx shook him hard, fingers pressing bruises between the seams of his upper arm armour.

“Listen here,” he spat, leaning in close to the younger trooper even though his voice would be perfectly clear on the com. “This might be our last chance off this forsaken rock. I’m not going to spoil it by losing my temper with these prissy Imperials. So suck it up, Veetch, and we can finally get out this kriffing hell-hole.”

“But the others… Dene and Recon and Helix and Axis-”

“-Are gone.” Hexx’s voice was flat. “But we’re still here.” He sighed, loosening his grip on Veetch’s arm, transferring his hand to his shoulder instead to grip with supportive pressure. “If you were older you’d have learned this during the war. There’s always another mission. Another posting. Some of your brothers get left behind. But they’d want you to go on, so you fight another day, you keep living for them. You hear me?”

Veetch wasn’t listening. His focus was over Hexx’s shoulder, gaze fixed on something distant. Then his hand flew to his com.

“Commander! Raiders spotted inside the perimeter.”

Instantly Hexx’s hands went to his blaster, spinning to follow Veetch’s gaze, dropping into a battle-ready stance.

“Over there,” Veetch told him, gesturing, and Hexx nodded.

“I see. Come on, kid. Let’s not let the Commander down now we’ve got an audience.”

The two clones sprinted for the perimeter breach, weaving between Imperial Troopers who stood around, slower to react. Veetch’s blaster fire lit up the hard-standing, arcing towards the raiders who broke from cover as they realised they had been made.

“I’ve got the west,” came Mayday’s voice over the com. “The sniper’s taking the east tower.”

They closed on the raiders, the cluster of enemy combatants quickly splitting up to try and escape. One of them crouched to the ground, steadying their rifle before taking a shot.

Veetch stumbled, veering out the way to take cover behind one of the base’s low barricades. The shelter was a brief respite, chance to catch his breath and look to Hexx for their next move.

Only Hexx was no longer at his side.

He was sprawled on the ground, throat torn out by blaster-fire.

The world narrowed. Inside his helmet, Veetch struggled to draw breath. By rote he raised his hand, activating his com.

“Hexx is down.” He was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded. His throat constricted around a thick lump of sorrow, but somehow it hadn’t stayed his words.

His fingers trembled beside the com button, feeling like he should say something else, not knowing what.

Confused shouts and blaster fire sounded as the Imperial Troops joined the combat. Veetch poked his head up from behind cover, quickly surveying the battlefield. The Imperials weren’t used to fighting in the dark and low visibility of Barton IV snowstorms. He was.

“Thee raiders heading towards the shuttle at zero-one-five,” he reported, and then he was on the move again. Two of the raiders peeled off in one direction but he was closer to the third – he stuck on them as they skirted round the lowered ramp to the far side of the shuttle.

He slowed to a jog as he neared the shuttle. The raider hadn’t noticed him; Veetch found himself softening his footfalls in the hope of ambushing his target.

An explosion. The light craft was consumed in intense nexus of fire which blossomed outwards with the strength of an inferno.

Veetch felt the wave of heat hit him first. Then lethal shrapnel pinwheeled from the wreckage to pierce his body, and he didn’t feel anything at all.

*

Crosshair left the chaos of the base and its burning debris field behind him and followed the spattered path of blood behind the buildings, the dark red stains stark against the snow even in the early twilight of the bad weather.

He blinked and squinted inside his helmet, trying to banish the bright dots dancing in front of his sensitive eyes. Even through the heat sensor, the after-image of the exploding shuttle had been seared into his retinas.

Normally, if there was an explosion on the battlefield, he knew the cause. Wrecker would give him a heads-up.

The attack on the outpost had been an ambush, and he'd had no time to avert his gaze from the sun-bright nova which engulfed the destroyed craft.

Now he slithered down a snow-slope, traitorous memory supplying unwanted thoughts of the last time he had fought on terrain like this. His head had hurt then, too, an intense pinpoint pressure at his temple. He had wondered if it was a migraine, the kind Hunter was prone to.

There was nothing there now but pitted scar tissue, shiny and stretched from the ion burn. At least this time the headache was due to the bright light, nothing more.

His descent brought him to a lip of ice and he dropped lithely into the channel below, landing on his feet. Blessed, cool darkness enveloped him, soothing to his overstrained eyes, but still the blinking afterglows remained and prevented his low-light vision from kicking in.

Crosshair drew the torch from his belt and flashed the beam ahead. The crevasse opened into a tunnel which bored into the mountain-side, winding round a corner and out of sight.

"A snow skiff took off down the western ridge," called a voice from behind him. He turned and looked up to see the reg commander following his route down the snow-slope, crouching at the top of the drop. “The rest must’ve fled on foot into the mountain pass.”

"Wrong," was all Crosshair said, casting his torch back towards the tunnel.

The commander dropped next to him and followed his gaze to a slick of red on the rocky floor.

"So that's how snuck past our defences," he breathed, his voice grim.

"We should go after them," said Crosshair, starting down the tunnel.

"Hang on," said Mayday quickly. He caught Crosshair’s arm, stalling his advance. "You'll freeze to death if you head out there. You think it's cold now? You've got no idea how it gets after true nightfall.” He didn’t fight Crosshair as the sniper shook himself free, instead folding his arms across his chest. “Besides, I've got brothers to bury."

The hitch in his voice was worse than sorrow. It was resignation.

Crosshair hesitated. He’d watched the clone trooper run alongside the shuttle, and barely given a thought to whether he had survived.

“Fine,” he said, his voice a thin, displeased whisper. He shifted his stance, resting the rifle on his shoulder. “But Nolan isn’t going to like this.”

Read Part 2.2 - Broken

Officially on Part 2 - now canon-compliant instead of pre-canon!

RIP Hexx and Veetch :(

Here's a reminder of the Angstpril prompts that @kybercrystals94, @the-little-moment and I are sharing; mine are the ones in red! :)

Here's @the-little-moment's stories:- Day 1 - Homesick Day 4 - Longing Day 7 - Bad Dreams Day 10 - Phantom Pain Day 13 - Learning The Truth Day 16 - Emotionally Distant

And @kybercrystals94's stories:- Day 3 - Broken Hearted Day 6 - This Isn't Going To Work Day 9 - Trust Issues Day 12 - A Little Too Late Day 15 - Confrontation

[onecreativeginger]

Day 1: Favorite Episode/Scene

I still can’t believe this episode was real, it was literally the best thing I’ve ever seen!!😍😍😍😍

Crosshair attempting to save Mayday’s life after knowing him for like a day is just so sweet and sad!🥺🥺🥺

[third-generation-female-warrior]

(Click for better quality!)

Quick Modern Mayday and Crosshair!

Was experimenting with a lineart process called "stop overcomplicating everything".

[evesartblog]

Remembrance

God DAMN this moment made me cry 🥲

I hope I did Mayday justice ✨✨

[rackcty]

prayer circle for rex/cody/wolffe this week starts NOW

[sinfulsalutations]

sweet sweet denial

[commanderfoxmybeloved]

the hill I will die on is that the most tragic story in star wars is the clones' story

[art-soop]

“No point in carrying deadweight.”

“Remind me not to die on your watch.”

[shyranno]

It’s nice to have a friend, ain’t it?

[ladyzirkonia]

The Bad Batch 3.05 - The Return and The Bad Batch 2.12 - The Outpost

Huh did I hurt myself with this? I'm fine.

[ahsokatanoe]

CROSSHAIR: I’ve… done things. I’ve made mistakes. HUNTER: I have regrets too, Crosshair. All we can do is keep trying to be better. And who knows? There might be hope for us yet.

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Welcome To The Outpost: Part 2.2 - Broken

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: CT-9904 Crosshair, Clone Commander Mayday, Lieutenant Nolan Word Count: ~3230 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Mayday might have lost his squad, but a new mission – and a new companion – gives him focus. After all, Crosshair doesn’t know how to survive out here.

Read Part 1.1 - Frozen Read Part 1.2 - Rise From The Ashes Read Part 1.3 - Lost Battle Read Part 1.4 - No Way Out Read Part 1.5 - Rock And A Hard Place Read Part 2.1 - Last Chance

Mayday’s fingers ghosted over Hexx’s empty helmet, lips twisting in a grimace. He bit the expression back to neutrality, forcing his face into an impassive mask. Wouldn’t do to break down now.

Reverently he placed his friend’s helmet onto the crate beside Veetch’s, turning it to face in. He took a few moments to adjust it until, satisfied with the alignment, he brushed his hand over Veetch’s helmet too and stepped back to survey his work.

Eleven helmets. Eleven blank visors, staring unseeing up at him. Eleven empty buckets, holding nothing but ghosts and bad memories, each bearing the scars of their owner’s deaths.

Some leader he was, without a squad left to command.

Crosshair had stayed quiet throughout the ritual, unobtrusive yet watchful. Mayday felt the other’s eyes on him, but the sniper wasn’t his focus.

The funereal silence was broken by the lieutenant storming in.

“What are you doing just standing around?” he demanded, pushing past Crosshair to immediately crowd into Mayday’s space. “Those raiders stole two crates of cargo in that attack,” he accused, jabbing an angry finger at the clone commander. “Send your troops to retrieve it.”

Mayday took a deep breath, closing his eyes just for a moment. When he sighed the breath out, his voice was gravel.

“Hexx, and Veetch, were killed in the ambush.” He said their names slowly, rolling them round his tongue like keeping the sound of their names in his mouth might keep their memories alive a little longer. Just as slowly, he turned from the memorial, lifting his bowed head to glare at the lieutenant.

“We don’t have the manpower, or gear, for a mission beyond the perimeter,” he said flatly. “Especially just to recover a few crates.”

The hollow pit of loss gnawed at his stomach as he remembered the last time they ventured beyond the base to retrieve stolen cargo. Back then, he’d had men to lose.

Nolan was having none of it.

“It’s not up to you to determine what is of value to the Empire,” he pouted, puffing himself up to glare at the clone commander.

Mayday grit his teeth and returned the look with his own uncompromising glower.

“Then I need all your men for this mission,” he said, calculating the likelihood of success as he spoke.

“And leave this outpost vulnerable to another attack?” trilled Nolan in disbelief. “I think not.” He turned, and now his pointing finger encompassed both the clone troopers. “This task falls to you two, and you two alone. Recover the cargo. Is that clear?”

Mayday’s eyes flicked up, and he found himself meeting the gaze of the defective clone who had, as before, remained silent through the lieutenant’s tirade.

Crosshair’s jaw worked around a toothpick, and his eyes slid away.

Mayday swallowed his bitter pride and returned his glare to the Imperial officer. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he ground out, watching as the man retreated.

Behind him the sniper turned the toothpick over in his mouth as he chewed anxiously.

Taking a deep breath, Mayday rolled his neck to ease the tension and came to join Crosshair, seating himself on a crate and leaning forwards to warm his hands and face in the meagre glow of the heater. He glanced at the still-standing sniper, offering him a hollow smile.

“A special mission, just for us clones,” he said, not bothering to mask the resentment in his voice. “So what did you do to get on his bad side?”

Crosshair shrugged his thin shoulders, not meeting Mayday’s eyes.

Mayday sighed, letting his gaze drop, before sneaking a glance up at the other clone again. At least Crosshair’s reluctance to look at him gave him chance to study the man. He had tried not to stare when the CT-99 first removed his helmet, but it was hard not to want to.

He'd expected some slight variance from the standard template, but Crosshair's narrow face and sharp jaw were a far cry from the mirror he was used to seeing when he looked at his clone brothers. His skin was paler too, and his shorn-back hair hugged his scalp with stubble that showed shades of grey despite his youth.

Mayday had politely averted his attention from the pitted scar at the other clone's temple - it was bad grace to ask about these things.

Looking closely, he noticed the characteristics they did share. Narrowed though they were in constant suspicion, Crosshair had the same shrewd brown eyes that Mayday was so familiar with, restlessly darting and framed by the tattoo around his right orbit. Mayday briefly wondered if the clone had picked his name first, or if it was the tattoo which had earned him the moniker.

And the gauntness of his face was also familiar. Enhanced by his jutting cheekbones, Mayday recognised the look of someone gone too long with too little food, the hollow hardness that came with dire situations. He would never ask what Crosshair had been through, but he'd bet his meagre credit balance that it wasn't so different to what Mayday and his own squad had suffered.

His gaze drifted back to the line of empty buckets, to the two most newly added to the end of the row.

“That man is going to be the death of me,” he muttered, reluctantly pushing back to his feet. “Come on. I’ll grab my gear and we’ll head out.”

*

“I’ll say this about the tunnels,” said Mayday with false levity, “at least they’re warm. Well, relatively speaking. We’re out of the wind… that’s something.”

There was a lingering silence before Crosshair asked, “Do you always talk this much?”

Mayday huffed a laugh at the acerbic comment. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said without remorse. "Why, remind you of someone?"

If anything, Crosshair's silence got colder. Mayday glanced at his recalcitrant companion before turning to face ahead once more.

"Not much of a talker, are you."

"Better than people who talk when they've got nothing to say."

Mayday’s grim smile was hidden inside his helmet. "Not gonna give an inch, are you? I was hoping you'd lighten up once we were away from the Imperials."

Crosshair swung to face him, torchlight bright in his face and the muzzle of the firepuncher just above it.

"We're all Imperials now," he said, in a voice which warred between conviction and reticence. "Or did you miss the memo?"

"Oh I got it," said Mayday darkly, tapping his temple. "I just chose to hang onto my own faculties despite it."

He moved past the sniper, one hand casually pushing the firepuncher down and away. Crosshair lingered for a moment before falling back into step behind the commander.

"They say loyalty is bred into us clones," continued Mayday softly, sounding out his thoughts slowly to his unwilling audience. "Under the Republic, I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. I was proud to do my duty."

He let the thought trail off, chasing the indistinct feeling of discomfiture that had lodged inside his chest after Order 66 and hardened into something immoveable during the long months on Barton IV.

"The Empire is different," he said at length. "I don't know. I'm still loyal. Always have been. It's just..."

"You've been questioning," supplied Crosshair unexpectedly.

Mayday pulled up short, regarding the sniper with a shrewd look.

"Perhaps you've thought about this after all."

"Perhaps," said the younger clone non-committally. Then he gestured with his rifle. "Keep walking, or we'll never catch them."

Mayday rolled his eyes and breathed a shallow, sarcastic, "Sir, yes sir."

*

They had been following the tunnels for an hour before their torches lighted on a pair of boots sticking out from round a slight bend.

When they reached the man, Mayday crouched down and checked for vitals. The raider’s thickly padded clothes were stained dark from the gunshot wound Crosshair had inflicted; the sniper didn’t react to that, surveying the corpse dispassionately.

“He didn’t get far.”

Mayday rocked back onto his heels, shaking his head. “Not sure what bothers me more,” he said, voice soft with introspection. “That he’s wearing armour stolen off my men, or that his cohorts just left him here.”

He remembered the lengths he and his men had gone to in recovering each of their fallen brethren’s bodies. The final chance for a farewell. Looking at the dead raider, abandoned by his comrades, filled him with a hollow kind of sorrow.

Crosshair merely scoffed.

“No point carrying dead weight.”

There was a fine line between arrogance and insecurity, and Mayday was an experienced enough commander to recognise when one was masking the other. He glanced up at Crosshair, wondered again about the scars and the gauntness of his underweight frame.

Wondered who had left the Imperial sniper behind, that he was now so callous about the fate of others.

With a grunt, he pushed to his feet.

“Remind me not to die on your watch,” he muttered, and they left the fallen raider behind.

*

Mayday stiffened instantly at the familiar click, stomach dropping into a pit of dread.

To his credit, Crosshair didn’t panic. He froze, going stock still as Mayday turned to face him.

“Pressure mine,” supplied the commander helpfully.

Crosshair hummed an irate acknowledgement of the obvious statement.

Mayday knelt on the ground before Crosshair, laying down his blaster and positioning his torch to light the other clone’s feet. Ignoring the chill of the snow through his gloves, he carefully brushed the powdery stuff away until he revealed the edges of the innocuous, deadly metal plate.

Unable to resist, he huffed a laugh. “What were you saying about dead weight?”

“Do you know how to disarm it?” bit Crosshair, his annoyed tone not quite masking the anxious undercurrent of tension that thrummed from him.

With a shrug, Mayday rocked back to his heels. “I’m not an explosives expert,” he said bluntly. “But since I don’t feel like carrying your body back to the outpost…” He left a deliberate pause, glancing up at Crosshair to find the other clone’s visor turned towards him, gaze riveted on his position. “Guess I’ll give a shit.”

Mayday had an unexpectedly intense longing to know what Crosshair’s expression was behind the featureless black helmet. Was he glaring at Mayday in disdain… or was he moved by his assertion that, even if he died, Mayday would show him the same care he had the rest of his brothers in recovering his body?

He hoped it was the latter. Eleven empty helmets crowded his memories. He didn’t want to add a twelfth, but if he had to, he wanted Crosshair to know that someone would care about his death.

Breaking the long stare, Mayday turned back to the pressure mine. “This one’s a little different to the ones I’ve seen before,” he said, leaning to inspect it from all sides. Crosshair’s shin trembled, with cold or with tension, but he kept his foot carefully weighted on the pad. Then, with another injection of feigned casualness, “I’m pretty sure they’re all the same. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

His cold-numbed fingers didn’t want to co-operate as he withdrew the set of small metal pegs and hammer from his belt. He took a moment to inspect them, checking that the ends were sharp enough to bite into the frozen ground, before leaning in and beginning to tap the first peg into place.

“Wish I had the proper equipment for this,” he said as he worked, talking through the thudding of his heart whilst Crosshair remained completely silent. Sweat beaded on his brow inside his helmet, despite the ambient temperature. “But the Empire’s ignored all my requests. I’ve learned to improvise, though.”

As the first peg came to rest on the mine he opened his hand, displaying the remaining tools to Crosshair. Thought of all the times this home-made kit had worked.

Tried not to think of Telmer.

“I guess all clones have had to learn to improvise since the war,” he continued softly, shuffling to the side as he positioned the second peg. He kept his gaze trained on the mine, carefully measuring the gap as the peg closed on the pressure plate.

Crosshair’s silence was beginning to unnerve him. Anxiety roiled in his stomach, wishing the other clone would say something – encouragement, scathing remarks, anything.

“Can’t say I ever thought much about the war ending,” he said, hoping it would prompt the other to speak. “Until it did.”

When that failed to elicit a response, he switched to a direct question.

“What unit were you with?”

He heard the intake of breath as Crosshair hesitated. It was hard to avoid such a straight query from a commander, but the sniper made a valiant effort.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Humour me,” said Mayday. His hands moved past Crosshair’s foot again, reaching to position the final peg. “I could use the distraction.”

There was still a long moment when the only sound was the delicate tap of the hammer on the improvised disarming peg. When Crosshair finally spoke his voice was soft, missing the acid edge of his earlier snark.

“Clone Force 99.”

Mayday nodded slowly as he worked. He recognised the name, although he had never worked with the unit.

“What happened to them?” he asked, hoping his gentle tone would invite elaboration.

“They’re… gone.”

The sniper’s choice of words was more telling than he realised. Mayday wasn’t about to pry, but it was easy to see there was something complex going on there.

He thought of his brothers, his men who had been with him through the unrelenting hardship of Barton IV. Geo and Dene, Krake, Recon and Axis, Ferox, Atlas, Telmer and Helix. Veetch. Hexx.

They weren't ‘gone’. They were dead.

Gone… gone implied something else.

He also sensed that Crosshair wasn’t going to open up any further, no matter how carefully he angled his question. Instead, he turned his thoughts outwards to what remained.

“And here we are, the survivors.” The derision in his tone drew a hum of agreement from Crosshair, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his next words. “Combat troopers, stuck babysitting cargo shipments.”

Now Crosshair shifted his frame ever so slightly, the first movement since he triggered the mine, as his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“Mission’s a mission,” he said, his voice thin with disinterest.

“Yeah.” Mayday pondered the other clone’s words, trying to remember a version of himself that had arrived on Barton IV over fourteen months ago. “I used to say the same thing.”

*

Crosshair employed every ounce of his training to keep deathly still as the reg commander worked to disarm the pressure mine under his foot. Endless hours cramped in one place, waiting for his target to come into position, was nothing compared to the strain that this put on his body. Every muscle ached, screaming against the cold to be allowed to shiver, to move, to warm him. He clamped down with iron willpower to supress the urge to twitch even the slightest amount. He daren’t move, or the pressure mine would send them both to an early grave.

A lacklustre thought at the back of his mind wondered if that might be better. He quickly quashed that too, with a growl of annoyance. Thoughts like that weren’t helpful.

He had survived so much. He would survive this too. He’d be damned if he failed this mission; he wanted his success to wipe the smirk off Lieutenant Nolan’s face when the clones came through.

If only the damn reg would stop talking. The susurrus of his conversation was stopping Crosshair from concentrating on remaining perfectly still.

Especially when he asked about Clone Force 99.

Crosshair had let the name escape from behind clenched teeth, unwilling but seemingly unavoidable. Now memories he didn’t want flooded his mind, after all his hard work to put aside everything that had ever tied him to the clones he had once called brothers.

Not that the mindless babble Mayday had provided the rest of the day had been any easier to bear.

Loyalty. He’d talked about it, how loyalty was bred into the clones.

Crosshair had always thought he was different. He was enhanced.

Defective, whispered the poisonous voice in his mind.

But listening to Mayday talk, all he could hear was Rampart’s gently mocking voice.

“How long were you left stranded on that Kaminoan platform before being recovered?”

“Thirty-two rotations.”

“Hmm. All that time. Left for dead and yet you still came back. Why?”

He came back because he was loyal. He was a soldier of the Empire, proud to be one of the clones chosen to support the new regime instead of being sidelined by it.

Had to be proud of that, to balance the loss.

And his loyalty was his. He’d been so sure of that. It wasn’t bred into him. It wasn’t, like the kid had said, some chip in his brain controlling his actions. After all, he’d had his chip removed after Bracca, and had still worked for the Empire.

Only now it felt like that faith was fracturing, breaking as readily as the cracks in the cavernous ice around him.

He hated the reg commander. Hated his compelling, measured voice. Hated the uncertainty he planted in his mind.

Hated how reassuring it was to hear another clone voice the same doubts he’d been afraid to turn over in the dark privacy of his thoughts.

Mayday couldn’t be right. The Empire had to be worth defending.

Otherwise he’d lost his brothers for nothing.

“There. That should do it.”

The hint of triumph in Mayday’s tone pierced Crosshair’s thoughts and instantly his body was ready to move, the words the signal he needed to relax his cramped position.

“Woah, woah, woah!” warned Mayday in alarm, backing up and holding his hands up cautiously. “Don’t pick up your foot yet. Wait until I tell you.” He turned his bucket up to face Crosshair, the cloth-wrapped helmet dusted with snow. “Then lift your foot, but real slow like. I’ll wait around the bend.”

The commander began to back away, turning his back to Crosshair.

“If I don’t hear a boom, then I’ll know it worked,” he called back, almost casually, over his shoulder.

Crosshair grit his teeth, scrunching his eyes shut behind his helmet. How he wished it had been Wrecker attending the mine.

“Glad you’re confident in your work,” he spat icily.

“Oh, I’m confident,” Mayday’s voice drifted to him. “I’m just not stupid.”

Crosshair wriggled his fingers round his rifle, testing his balance on his numb legs. A shiver of cold made its way down his leg to the foot still atop the pressure plate.

“Remember, nice and slow. On the count of three. One.”

He steadied himself.

“Two.”

Took his weight on his back leg.

“Three.”

Lifted his foot.

The pegs held the pressure plate in place. Crosshair couldn’t control how his breath whooshed out in relief and he staggered back against the tunnel wall, sagging his aching body against it.

Mayday reappeared, surveying the pressure mine before clapping a hand to Crosshair’s shoulder.

“You did good, lad.”

Crosshair snarled. “Get off me.”

Mayday’s casual laugh was infuriating.

“Don’t say thank you, then,” he said, releasing him and turning to continue down the tunnel. “Keep up. Wouldn’t want you to get left behind down here.”

Read Part 2.3 - Swept Away

Welcome to Angstpril!

This writing project is a collaboration between myself, @the-little-moment and @kybercrystals94 to bring you a fabulous series of angst-based Bad Batch fanfiction. We've shared the prompts between us so don't forget to check all of our blogs to catch the whole month's worth of stories!

We're over half way through Mayday's story now, and there's hardship yet to come for him to face alongside Crosshair. Stay tuned to follow their journey to the bitter end...

will do my level best to get the next chapter finished on time but it's been A Few Days so we'll see

[onecreativeginger]

Day 5: How It Should’ve Ended

Mayday deserved to live and I’m still so sad that he didn’t!🥺🥺🥺

So here’s Crosshair taking care of Mayday after they both escaped the Empire!🥰🥰

[melymigo]

Every scene is a favourite!

Watch the final season of The Bad Batch streaming on Disney plus.