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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 2 months

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A Fair Price To Pay

@febuwhump prompt: "Who did this to you" @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Tortured for Information

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Crosshair, Omega, Hemlock Post Season 2: Escape from Tantiss. If you've read my fic 'A Cosy Bed', you know what's in store for Crosshair. Enjoy. Word Count: ~9675 Read Here On AO3

Content Warning: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence/Injuries Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Crosshair is determined to get Omega out of Tantiss, even if their freedom comes at a price.

Along the way, she saves him too.

*now with added epilogue! check the reblogs!*

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Hemlock walked slowly around the table, inspecting the restraints that his assistant tightened to hold the tall clone in place. Yes, CT-9904 was weakened from his long incarceration, but this time they weren’t taking any chances.

“I am truly impressed by your fortitude and ingenuity,” he said, in that soft-spoken tone that somehow imparted so much more fear than those leaders who raised their voices. “I thought it remarkable, but a fluke, that you escaped the first time and attempted to transmit a message to your… ‘brothers’… to warn them about – well. You know.

“But to defy me again, and hide the girl from me?”

He stopped at the head of the table, leaning into the periphery of Crosshair’s vision. Crosshair couldn’t turn his head – he was fastened too tightly to do more than twitch in defiance. He kept his gaze fixed determinedly on the ceiling, trying to refute the weakness in his body, the faint tremor that set up in his muscles in response to fatigue and fear.

“I would like you to tell me where she is.” A soft plea, but insistent. “This facility is a big place, and she may come to harm if she is unattended. So please, Crosshair. Could you tell me where Omega is?”

Hemlock’s request sounded so reasonable.

Crosshair blinked and said nothing. Bit the sides of his tongue to keep from talking. Stared at the ceiling. At the ceiling. Not at the vents. Lifting Omega up, hiding her in a vent. Hissing at her to stay silent, not to be found.

Stare at the ceiling, don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

Hemlock sighed. “It disappoints me that you are unwilling to co-operate.” He gestured to his assistant, and a needle bit into the skin of Crosshair’s neck. Don’t look. Don’t give them the satisfaction of looking.

“What can I do that might compel you to tell me the girl’s whereabouts? There is nothing I can offer you. You have proven, repeatedly, that you cannot be trusted to submit to incarceration without resistance.” A soft huff of laughter. “Perhaps I should be unsurprised. The Kaminoan reports always indicated that your batch of ‘enhanced’ clones were unreliable.”

A warm, numb feeling began to spread through Crosshair’s body. His mind worked sluggishly. What had they dosed him with? He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t betray the kid. It was the least he could do. Try and protect her. It’s what Hunter would want.

Sensation dropped away. There was no table. No restraints. His body was cushioned on air.

Hemlock was still talking.

“If I cannot offer reward for co-operation, I must threaten punishment. Thus far, you have been remarkably resistant to our… usual methods of data extraction.”

Data extraction. Torture. Crosshair’s jaw worked. Was he trying to talk? He shouldn’t do that. Didn’t want to. That’s what they wanted. They wanted him to talk. Tell them about Omega, hiding in the vent. Waiting for him to come back.

That’s right. He’d promised her he would come back, once he’d found a way out. He’d better go find her.

Tried to move his legs, but they wouldn’t function. That was odd. He pictured rolling to his side, standing up, off the table. Staggering forwards. Wondered why his body wouldn’t obey.

“The sedative should have taken effect by now.”

Sedative. That would do it. The numbness.

Why would they sedate him?

Hemlock wore a small smile as he leaned directly into the path of Crosshair’s vision. He blinked, the doctor’s face swimming in and out of focus.

“What can I take from you?” Hemlock asked softly, almost to himself. “What do you treasure? What do you hold on to in the belief that it sets you apart from all the other multitudes of clones in the galaxy?”

A medical droid hovered into view. This wasn’t right. Crosshair was still conscious. If they had sedated him, consciousness should fade. Instead he was awake, thoughts wildly roaming and unable to take action as his mind had become uncoupled from his body.

Crosshair was just barely aware of a touch to his face – Hemlock, tracing a finger down the fine line of his tattooed eye socket.

“I think,” said the doctor with a humourless smile, “I shall take your sight.”

The droid unfolded its appendages, positioning the fine, sharp tools just above Crosshair’s right eye.

“Do tell me, Crosshair, if you want me to stop. We can desist at any time. I just need to know where you have hidden Omega.”

Crosshair didn’t know if he could make his mouth work anyway, in this drug-induced dream-haze. At least he wouldn’t be able to give the girl up by accident.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Hemlock’s voice was more distant now, the doctor retreating to give the medical droid space to work.

“The sedative has robbed you of motor function. It has not dulled your pain receptors.”

Crosshair had been conscious for surgery before, in the labs of Kamino; pain numbed but mind sharp, responding to each instruction to focus, read this, can you see that, whilst the surgeons grafted synthetic muscle to his enhanced eyes to give him unprecedented control over his superior eyesight. Back then he had been silent, answering only when spoken to, bitterly determined to see the ordeal through with iron willpower.

Now, mind numbed but pain sharp, Crosshair found his voice. Moreso than the pain, panic ate at his nerves; strapped down, unable to flee, the right side of his world going dim.

Even when tears choked him, he didn’t give up Omega.

The sedative was still leaden in his body when he was returned to his cell, laid into the barren cot with a tasteless meal placed on the floor beside.

Hemlock was a shadowed figure just beyond the doorway as the droid assistant retreated.

“If I do not find Omega by the end of the next day,” came the doctor’s soft, even voice, “I will return for your other eye. If you wish to disclose her whereabouts, you have only to alert the guards.”

The door shut with a clang, the finality of a tombstone settling into place. Crosshair tested his sluggish limbs. He could move in an uncoordinated way, like swimming through heavy atmosphere. He dragged himself to the edge of the cot, all but falling to the floor, right hand coming up to claw at his hollow eye socket. A sob welled up but he swallowed it, forcing silence to his lips instead. On the floor he curled, foetal, arms cradling and protecting his head, one remaining eye squeezed shut to block out the reality of his loss.

If he kept his eye shut, he could pretend that’s all it was. Just like having his eyes closed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Perhaps he finally slept from exhaustion.

A scratching sound nearby permeated his consciousness, slowly dragging his mind back from the numb vortex of despair his thoughts circled. A sound not in his cell. A sound in the walls.

Carefully he rolled to his side, pushing up to sit cross-legged with his back to the noise. His right shoulder hunched high, defensive, shielding his broken face. With his left arm he reached across his body, pulling the food tray to him, then without turning shuffled backwards until he was leaned against the wall.

Once he was there he sagged against the supporting expanse of steel, drained even by that small amount of movement. Fatigue coursed through him with quivering intensity, invading his thoughts and muscles with equal ferocity, but he forced himself to gather the bread roll from the tray and slowly start picking it to pieces.

Once the roll was in shreds he tucked his hands behind the small of his back, posting the fragments of bread through the vent.

Omega’s fingertips brushed against his and he stilled, almost ready to weep at the contact. He tilted his head back against the cool steel, closing his eyes. Closing one eye, trying not to feel how his eyelid stretched in pain over the empty place his right eye used to be. He briefly squeezed her fingers in return.

“Eat up, kid,” he whispered, voice no more than an exhaled breath. “You’re going to need your strength.”

“Have you got something to eat too?”

Crosshair cracked open his left eye, peering uncertainly at the tray. “Yeah. There’s stew.”

“Can’t pass that through a grate,” came Omega’s voice with forced cheer, and tears stung his lids at the way she could find levity even in the darkest situations.

When he finished passing the bread he reached out and lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping at the stew. His hands shook so much that the ceramic bashed against his teeth, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of pain to his empty eye-socket, and he hissed in displeasure.

“Crosshair?” Omega’s voice was small and concerned. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”

He took a breath. Summoned up some deep reserve of determination and stilled his quaking.

“I’m fine,” he said, and there was enough acid in his tone that he sounded almost like his old self. Then, “We’re getting out of here. Tonight.”

He heard a shuffling as she shifted her position within the walls. “What do I need to do, Crosshair? Tell me, and I’ll be ready.”

“Get back to the loose vent panel as the base switches over to night-cycle,” he said, trying to inject more confidence than he felt into his words. “I’ll meet you there.”

Tech had taught him all about their enhanced physiology. Had taught all of them, lecturing his brothers for hours on end to ensure they understood their enhancements so that they could best utilise them.

All clone troopers possessed an element of rapid healing, allowing them to shrug off injuries that would stall a nat-born, or recover more quickly from even more grievous wounds. And Experimental Unit 99 was enhanced even further than that, their growth and repair times even faster.

Crosshair wasn’t sure Hemlock knew that. Didn’t think he’d accounted for how quickly his body would break down the torture drugs which had been a feature of his long incarceration. He’d certainly never given them reason to suspect that he recovered faster than normal from the toxins they flooded his system with.

Too busy laying there in despair for them to think the drugs had worn off any quicker.

He would make use of that unintentional obfuscation now. They would expect him to still be staggered by the sedative.

All his short life, he’d been underestimated. Now, as before, he would turn it to his advantage.

“Guard.” He injected a tremulous note of feebleness into his voice. “Guard.”

An armoured solder appeared at the door of his cell. Not clone armour. The TK troopers.

“What do you want, prisoner?”

“Hemlock,” he stuttered. It wasn’t so hard to pretend, lances of pain stabbing through his head from behind his right orbit. “O…me…ga…”

A quick conference outside the door. The sound of retreating footsteps. The door opened, and the one remaining guard entered.

“On your feet,” came the command as he was grabbed roughly by his arm, “ready for the Doctor.”

Crosshair let himself be dragged upright, sagging his weight away from the TK soldier. Feigning weakness long enough for the man to off-balance to catch him.

One rapid, smooth move to sweep the knife from the sheath at the trooper’s belt. A single upward stroke of his arm, ending with the blade embedded under the rim of the helmet. A quiet gurgle and now it was the TK trooper’s turn to sag, Crosshair catching him and staggering under the weight.

He eased the dying man to the floor soundlessly, glancing at the door. Had he been too loud? Would someone investigate?

Hunter would know. Hunter would hear someone coming, sense them, long before they arrived.

Crosshair didn’t have Hunter. Only his own, un-enhanced senses, dulled by pain, and vision that swam in and out and faded disconcertingly where his peripheral sight used to be on the right.

He quashed the rising panic. With trembling hands he set to releasing the catches on the dead man’s armour, fasting it to his own body with the rote instinct of years performing the same actions, no matter how shell-shocked he felt. Knife at his belt. Pistol at one hip, blaster in hands.

Pulled on the helmet, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the close warmth of another man’s gear pressing around his injured face. Activated the HUD. Wished he knew how to compensate for his missing eye.

Wearily, he pulled himself to his feet. Both hands clutched the blaster, trying to still the tremors that ran through him. The armour felt unbearably heavy, and he wondered how he ever used to carry this weight, let alone move agile and evasive across battlefields.

He looked down at the youth whose lifeblood pooled darkly on the ground, eyes glassy and unseeing in death. There was nowhere to hide the body, and even a cursory glance would show it wasn’t Crosshair, so no point trying to disguise it in the small cot. He forced his body straight, falling into the memory of rigid protocol to step out of the cell, just another guard, another obedient soldier–

Two more guards, at the end of the corridor. Their visors trained on him as he walked slowly, so slowly, towards them. Too slow? No. Slow enough to be relaxed. Like a guard who thought nothing was wrong.

“The Doctor will be here shortly,” one of them told him.

Did they expect a response? His voice would give him away, knowing that his soft, sibilant tone would never pass for the voice of the young conscripted trooper. A slight incline of his head, acknowledging he had heard. Would it be enough?

The guards parted, and one keyed the door open for him.

Past the first hurdle. Now to find Omega.

The stolen helmet was oppressive, tight and humid. His breath was harsh in the close space and sweat beaded on skin which flushed hot and cold, clammy and uncomfortable. With each step the headgear rubbed against swollen right side of his face, bruising stretched tight over his angular cheekbones, and he was certain that someone would notice he didn’t walk with the confidence of a soldier who owned this armour.

Where had he spotted the loose vent; the one he had boosted Omega up to when stray chance had brought them together in an empty corridor the day before? His attention drifted and he pressed a hand to the helmet, trying to steady his pounding head. Perhaps the sedative wasn’t fully out of his system. Too late to worry now. There was no going back.

They would make it out today, or he would die. That’s all there was to it.

He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, letting the blaster in his right hand drop limply to his side. A wave of nausea coursed through him, the meagre meal he had consumed threatening to reappear. Desperate, he glanced around. Not alone. Two guards, escorting prisoners the opposite direction.

No choice. His stomach convulsed, vomit and bile burning up his throat and into his mouth. Unthinking, he dropped the blaster and wrenched the helmet off, lunch spewing forth as he collapsed to his hands and knees. Dimly he was aware of clamouring voices as he dry-heaved, clawing his fingers against the slick puddle of vomit inches from his face.

“That’s one of the prisoners!”

Still dazed, he felt himself picked up and slammed against the wall. What was left of his vision swam, agony lancing through his head at the impact, a hot poker of pain rocketing from the base of his skull to the aching emptiness of his right eye socket. A fist found his gut, robbing him of breath he had barely recovered, before some deep-seated need to survive burned through the numbness and he thought to fight back.

Another blow to the stomach and he doubled over. His hand groped for the pistol at his hip. Once he could have done this in a heartbeat – release the cover, draw the pistol, fire. Old training guided his muscles but new weakness hobbled him; one, two, three attempts to free the pistol.

Someone grabbed his throat, squeezing, dragging him upright. The guard. Fingers pressed into his windpipe, hard enough to bruise. Crosshair couldn’t swallow the mewl of fear as he writhed in the unforgiving grip.

Then the pistol was free, blast bolt ricocheting from the floor, and the sound of live fire was drowned by a ragged cheer from the chain of prisoners who surged towards where Crosshair struggled with the guards.

Crosshair shakily brought the pistol to bear, firing again, but the guard released his throat and knocked his hand aside. The shot went wide and Crosshair grunted as the guard tackled him, pinning him to the wall.

The second guard was readying his own blaster, backing away from the cluster of prisoners he had lost control of, trying to angle over his partner’s shoulder at Crosshair. Crosshair tilted his head back, gasping as another blow found his narrow ribs, tuning out the pain as he focused on the second guard.

He raised the pistol. His arm was shaking. Stars danced across his vision, going dark as his grip on consciousness faded.

Three shots. The third hit. The guard fell.

Noise swelled. The body was swarmed by his fellow prisoners before it hit the floor. Summoning a desperate reserve of strength, Crosshair shoved at his assailant. The guard stepped back for just a moment, then lunged.

Pain exploded in his face as the guard’s fist connected with his cheekbone. For a moment Crosshair sagged, the oblivion of unconsciousness pulling tantalisingly at his senses. But before he met that relief he was wrenched back to full awareness, a raw scream torn from his throat, as two fingers hooked into the bottom of his orbital socket and pulled.

Crosshair howled as he dropped to his knees, forced down by pressure which might have been the barest touch or might have been the weight of a neutron star; it didn’t matter, his body would do nothing but obey the grip inside his broken eye-socket. Somewhere within the excruciating blossom of pain, newly repaired skin from the surgical extraction tore.

Then the weight of his attacker was lifted from his body and still he howled, and the pistol was prised from his fingers and there were hands on his shoulders and someone was shaking him.

“He’s dead. He’s dead. Pull yourself together. You looked like you were going somewhere.”

Clawing at his face, blood pulsing lazily down his cheek, Crosshair gazed up in desperation. Prisoner’s garb. A familiar face. The hollow cheeks and shaved head of an underweight reg.

“Echo?” he groaned, reaching out with his left hand, fastening trembling fingers round the other’s arm.

A shake of the head. “Sorry, brother.” The reg was crouched in front of him, tearing strips from his sleeved tunic and wadding them up to press to Crosshair’s face. The sniper hissed and recoiled, the fresh damage to his eye socket settling into an intense, pulsing nexus of hurt.

“Is he alright?” asked another voice.

“Don’t think so.”

“I’m fine,” ground out Crosshair, pushing away at the ministering hands, staggering to his feet. He glanced around, searching, but one reg was holding out the pistol, and another had the stolen helmet.

His thoughts were sluggish, swirling in a disparate haze of pain and fatigue, but through it all one goal cut clearly.

“I have to go,” he muttered, gesturing for the pistol. It was placed in his palm, his arm sagging tiredly by his side. Then the reg holding the helmet stepped in front of him, reverently offering the protective headgear.

“Is there anything we can do?” one of them asked, and a murmur of assent rippled through the group.

Crosshair eased the helmet back on, panting shallowly through his mouth. Adrenaline demanded his body continue, even as his mind wanted to shut down.

“A distraction,” he muttered, voice distorted by the vocoder. What he wouldn’t give to have Wrecker and his explosions by his side.

A reassuring hand clasped his shoulder.

“Leave it to us.”

The loose vent. Crosshair came to a halt, pressing one hand to the side of his helmet, pretending to receive a com as another group of guards marched past. At the far end of the corridor a maintenance droid whirred away in silent industry.

He positioned himself opposite the vent, but had to turn his head to check both approaches were clear. The right side of his vision was a haze of red and black.

“Omega,” he hissed, low and urgent.

He saw the gleam of her eyes in the dark, checked the corridor once more. Then he stepped under the vent, lifting his arms up to her.

The girl pushed the vent from inside, sliding it out until it swung free on the one screw that held it. Then she reversed her position, shuffling out legs first and wriggling until her body dangled down the wall, holding on with the lip of the vent under her armpits.

“Drop,” he instructed, and she did. He reached out to catch her.

Almost missed.

One hand lodged securely under her armpit. The other was wide, and Omega squeaked in alarm as the uneven brake tilted her descent sidewards. Crosshair flung his other arm around her chest, pulling her tight and breaking her speed against his body, staggering as her weight hit him.

“Quiet,” he choked out as a fresh shockwave of pain lit up his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or to himself. The pressure inside his skull was so intense he felt sure it would fracture.

“Crosshair?” came her quiet voice, and the single word of his name was saturated with concern.

Crosshair lowered her the rest of the way to the floor, shuddering breath into his lungs. He looked up at the open vent. He’d meant to catch her and keep her aloft so she could replace it.

“We need to move,” he gasped, fingers closing vice-like round her shoulder as she turned to face him. He drew her to his left side “Stay close to me.”

A hum as the power cycled, and the lights of the corridor dimmed. The base was switched to night cycle. Distantly, the maintenance droid continued to rumble.

Crosshair fumbled to retrieve the blaster he had stowed to catch her. He didn’t mean to lean so much on her slim frame. Wasn’t certain he could walk without the support.

“Where are we going?” Omega asked, starting forwards with halting steps at the pressure of his hand. “What’s the escape plan?”

“Get to the hanger level,” said Crosshair, hoping that the vocoder would blur the exhaustion in his voice. “We’ll find a shuttle.”

Omega’s small hand curled over his, squeezing. “There’s no way we can reach the hangers undetected,” she said hesitantly.

He didn’t know how to assuage her fear.

“Keep going,” he muttered, pushing her forwards.

Luck was on their side, at first.

Crosshair’s disguise held. The armour may have been an ill fit for his six-four frame, but it was the armour of a TK trooper, and nobody expected TK troopers to be an identical height the way clones were. Omega, in her medical assistant’s garb, simply looked like she was being escorted between assignments by Crosshair’s firm grip.

Crosshair’s stamina didn’t hold. Every step was a supreme effort of willpower, calling his attention back from the soft edges of the void to try and stay upright. His earlier nausea had given way to a gnawing enervation, his thoughts spacing out in absent drifts as he struggled to keep a continuous thread of consciousness.

His footsteps became heavy, dragging along the floor, and he stumbled. He caught his weight against Omega’s frame, felt her arms go round his waist to support him. Across the hall, heads turned to look at them.

“Report, soldier,” barked a captain, peeling away from his unit. “What’s the matter?”

Crosshair dragged his head up, trying to train his attention on the man. An enemy. Someone planning to stop their escape.

Achingly, shakingly, he began to raise his arm with the blaster.

Omega stepped firmly in front of him, arms out defensively. “This soldier is sick,” she said, her voice firm and uncompromising. A blaster was pointed her way, but she didn’t waver. “I am taking this patient for treatment.”

“And who are you?” came the dispassionate question. “Identify yourself.”

“Um,” began Omega, and the hesitation was enough to end them. The captain tensed, raising his weapon aggressively.

“Identify yourself!”

Pain zeroed in on Crosshair’s mind, forcing out all higher thought. There was nothing left, nothing but the need to survive.

He raised his arm. Raked a ragged line of fire through the captain, through his squad. Wavered on his feet as the men yelled and dived, trying to evade his haphazard attack.

One of the blaster bolts had taken down the captain at least. The others in the squad scrambled for defensive positions, nursing wounds, readying weapons. A bolt of blaster fire zipped into the dark space where his peripheral vision once was.

“Crosshair!”

Omega was clinging to his arm, dragging him, stumbling, into cover. She grabbed the pistol from his holster, peeking out to spy their enemies.

Deep-trained discipline kicked in. Crosshair crouched over Omega, shielding her body with his own. Sighted down the weapon. Watched his first shots go wide. Compensated. Still missed.

His sight was shot. Depth perception gone. Injury and exhaustion worked on his body to rob his hands of their steadiness.

Everything that had made him what he was; taken from him.

Crashing to his knees, head lolling, the blaster fell limply from his hands. He clutched at the right side of the visor, the reality of his lost sight hitting home. Unbidden, a wail of despair was dragged from him; back arched, head thrown back, a desperate keening sound ripped from his lungs and garbled through the helmet’s vocoder into an electronic howl which gave pause to the firefight, TK soldiers looking about in confusion.

Omega emerged from their meagre cover and levelled the pistol. Her expression went hard, eyes glinting in determination.

Every shot found its mark. With every shot she claimed a life, until the corridor echoed with sudden stillness after the fight.

She didn’t wait. Immediately she grabbed Crosshair’s arm, looping it across her shoulders and dragging him to his feet.

“Come on,” she implored, half plea, half command. “We have to make it to the lift.”

Crosshair allowed himself to be pulled along, unable to resist. Something in the back of his mind needled him as he let her take his weight, barely able to hold himself upright.

“I’m… slowing you down,” he managed, trying feebly to shake free of her support.

“I’m not leaving here without you, Crosshair.”

Deep inside, her words were a balm to his injured soul. She wouldn’t leave him. She wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly against the pulsating agony in his head and tried to keep up.

They reached the lift, Omega keying in the code to summon the capsule that would carry them up to the hanger level. Crosshair slouched against the wall, breathing heavily. It was all he could do to stay upright.

When the doors parted Omega led him through, her small hands in his, before she took charge of that control panel too. Sinking to the floor, Crosshair tilted his head back and let his mind swim in and out of consciousness. Not far now. Not far.

“An alert has been triggered,” came Omega’s voice, soft and distraught. “Reporting our escape. They’ll be waiting for us when the lift stops.”

Crosshair knew he should care about that. He waved a hand dismissively.

“I can handle it.”

He sensed – didn’t see, his eye was closed – her crouch next to him.

“You’re injured, Crosshair.”

He shook his head, but she was gently releasing the seal from the helmet and lifting it from his head. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.

The helmet clattered to the floor as she gasped, hands going to her mouth in shock. Bitterly, Crosshair rolled his head to one side. Tried to hide the right side of his face from her.

“Crosshair.” Her voice choked on tears. “Who did this to you?”

He knew how it must look. His right eye socket, empty. Bruising purpling the hollow lids, stretched across bone. Fine-line tattoo lost under a crust of dried blood.

“It doesn’t matter,” he managed through gritted teeth. He peered at her out of the slit of his left eye, dark brown iris glinting in the low light. “Are you okay?”

She threw herself at his chest, arms wrapping round him in a tight embrace. He grunted at the contact but raised his left arm weakly, folding it over her back and stroking her hair.

“Hey now, kid,” he murmured, words faint. “Don’t get soft on me. We’ve still got a fight ahead of us.”

She stayed pressed against him, and he felt her warm tears on his collar. Didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

The lift jolted to a halt, throwing them about and drawing a protesting hiss of pain from Crosshair. Omega raised her head, dashing her arm across her damp eyes, and looked about.

“There’s a new alert,” she said, scrambling up to inspect the panel. “It says there’s a fire! The lift has been deactivated. What do we do now?”

A thin-lipped, humourless smile pressed across Crosshair’s face. “A distraction,” he said aloud, wry satisfaction in his voice.

He dragged himself up, staggered as he lifted Omega onto his shoulder and directed her to open the emergency hatch in the ceiling. He barely managed to stay upright as she climbed up, and had sagged back to his knees when she reached down through the hatch for him.

“Come on, Crosshair.” Her voice was filled with stubborn determination. “You can do this.”

It was like she didn’t give him a choice. Her child’s voice cut through the throbbing pain in his head and he found himself obeying, passing up the blaster and helmet first, then letting her take hold of his hands and haul him up. He didn’t have the strength to assist. Even with her help he lay panting and spent on the roof of the lift, staring up at the dark chasm of the elevator shaft in unthinking exhaustion.

Omega shook his shoulder gently but insistently. “We have to keep going,” she said, easing him up to a sitting position. Wordlessly, she offered the helmet.

He glanced at her, bruised face meeting her gaze with a silent nod of thanks before he took the headgear and pulled it back on, hiding the extent of his injuries.

Omega slung the blaster over her back, leaving him with the pistol and the knife. Without discussion they moved to the service ladder, Omega clambering on first before turning to check Crosshair was following her.

“Stay with me,” she instructed, and he nodded.

Crosshair settled into the leaden rhythm of the climb, holding his body close to the ladder. He didn’t trust the strength of his grip so each step he laboriously hooked an elbow round the rungs, clinging on through dogged determination, resting and panting for breath with every excruciating foot he climbed.

The hot-cold nausea was back, setting up a tremble of weakness in his muscles. He choked, gagging, his stomach convulsing once more as he retched fruitlessly inside the helmet. His bottom foot slipped and he fell, catching himself on his right elbow, left hand linked around right wrist as he dangled helplessly against the rungs.

“Crosshair, keep climbing!” pleaded Omega, wrapping her own limbs around the ladder securely as she watched him, waiting for him to continue. He shook his head, arm slipping slowly through his own grip.

“Crosshair!”

Omega lunged as he lost his grip. Snagged the grapple from the TK trooper utility belt he wore, hauling it up even as he dropped. She gasped and snatched her hands back before her fingers could be trapped, the hooked grapple head clanging tightly to the ladder rungs. The ratchet on the cable jerked and caught, Crosshair grunting in pain as he swung into the wall at the end of the line.

“Keep climbing,” he said, voice ragged and broken, waving at her to continue.

Instead she climbed down to him, positioning herself under him, pulling him back to the ladder and helping him hook his arms and legs back around the rungs.

“We can do this,” came her voice, small but determined. “I’ve got you, Crosshair.”

This time he climbed ahead of her, and every time he sagged he felt Omega’s body curl close and protective against him. Her hands tightened on the rungs as she kept him pinned against the ladder, her cheek pressed against the small of his back. Despite the tremor in her own tiring muscles she held on, letting him catch his breath before urging him to continue.

They were still climbing when the power was restored, the ladder rumbling beneath them as the lift began to rise towards them. Crosshair glanced down, then quickly pulled Omega against him and released the ladder, letting them drop to the roof of the lift as it rushed up to meet them.

Omega’s blonde hair was tousled by the rushing wind of their ascent, and Crosshair swayed on his feet as he held her tightly to his body. He turned his face down to her, studied the hardened look on her face through the blurred edges of his vision. His arm squeezed tight around her shoulders, drawing on her strength as he embraced her to replenish his own flagging reserves.

The lift slowed, then stopped.

“Hanger level,” said Omega softly.

Below them, through the open hatch on the roof of the lift, came the hiss of a door seal releasing.

Crosshair dropped to one knee, slamming the hatch closed.

“Through the service tunnel,” he ordered, shoving Omega ahead of him. “It’ll take us above the hanger.”

Muffled voices. “The lift is empty.”

“What? They must be there. We had confirmation they were in this elevator.”

“Stay on guard! They have to be somewhere.”

They crawled into the narrow vent, Omega fitting easily, Crosshair struggling to drag his armoured shoulders along the tight channel. Plastoid scraped against durasteel with a grating whine, echoing along the duct, and he knew the sound would give their position away.

“Keep going,” he hissed, stopping to release scraps of armour and shed them inside the tunnel. It wouldn’t be much use now anyway. Once they reached the hanger, the opposition they faced would be so overwhelming that the armour wouldn’t save him from blaster-fire coming his way.

Pauldrons and pack discarded, he carried on after Omega. Blood drips spattered the inside of his visor. He didn’t have time to stop and wipe them clean. Had to keep moving. Almost out.

Almost out.

So tired.

Almost out.

Omega had stopped over a grille, pointing down into the hanger below.

“There’s TK troopers everywhere,” she whispered, shuffling to give him space to look.

He barely glanced at the scene. Trying to focus on the distant squads of soldiers set his head aching. Between the lost half of his vision and the smears inside his visor, so much was obscured.

“There,” he slurred, “that line of fighters.”

Omega scanned the hanger and saw the row of fighter ships, cockpits canopies open and ready to welcome their pilots.

“Do you know how to fly them?” she asked.

“Yes. Tech made me memorise-”

“-the specs of every ship,” she finished, a small smile curling her lips. “He did the same with me.”

Crosshair’s chest constricted at the memory of his brother. Choked back the wave of grief that threatened to drown him.

“We go along the line, sending them off on autopilot,” he said. “They won’t know which one to follow.”

“Which ship are we taking?”

“We need something with hyperspace capability.” He pointed to a slightly larger shuttle. “That one.”

They resumed their crawl along the duct, trying to ignore the shouts of the search parties below. Omega stopped when they reached a vent almost directly above the row of ships, threading one slim hand through the grating and starting to unscrew it from the outside.

Crosshair readied the grapple, then folded his body into an awkward seat and stole what rest he could whilst Omega worked. Everything was starting to sound very distant. His mind floated on a cushion of adrenaline, comfortably numb as his consciousness divorced itself from the pain wracking his body.

Then Omega was shaking him awake.

“Ready?” she asked. He blinked groggily inside the helmet, wincing at the way his bruised eyelids pulled on the tormented right side.

“Yeah,” he muttered unconvincingly, shifting into position.

Omega released the final screw and caught the grate before it dropped, lifting it back into the duct and stowing it behind her. She spidered herself over the hole, letting Crosshair and the grapple cable lower down first, before shimmying onto the cable herself.

Crosshair dropped quickly to the floor, knowing speed was as essential as silence to their descent going unnoticed. He misjudged his footing at the bottom, rolling his ankle with a muttered curse. Quickly detaching the cable from the utility belt, he hobbled to the protecting shadow of the nearest ship and watched in desperate anxiety as Omega shinned her way down the cable.

The girl dropped to the floor and scurried to his side, peering up at the fighter. “I should be able to activate the autopilot on a timer so they all start moving at once,” she told him.

“I’ll keep the patrols off your back,” he replied, taking the blaster from her and passing her the pistol instead.

Omega hesitated, about to turn away, then straightened to face him. “Crosshair,” she said with an uncertain waver. “We’re leaving together.”

Crosshair shook his head. “If you get the chance to go, take it. Tell Hunter-”

“Tell him yourself!” she snapped, voice rising angrily. “I’m not going without you!”

He clamped a hand across her mouth to quiet her, hissing a warning. She struggled and he released her, crouching down so he was on eye level with her.

“Omega,” he said, tiredness in his voice stilling her protest more effectively than his hand had. He blinked inside his helmet, trying to clear his vision, trying to fix the image of her determined, trusting face in his mind.

She pressed into him, arms folding round his half-armoured body in an embrace that spoke all of the words they didn’t have time to say. Crosshair cupped one hand to the back of her head, trying for a soothing hum that broke as his voice quavered in exhaustion.

Then he let go, shoving her gently towards the ships.

“Get on with it,” he hissed, and turned away to avoid the hurt in her eyes. The recrimination at the sacrifice they both knew he planned.

Because it would be worth it. His life for hers. Returning her to his brothers was all that mattered.

His head swam as he steadied the blaster in both hands.

Escape, or die trying.

Help the girl escape.

Die trying.

The floor wobbled and gave way beneath his feet as he crossed the hanger. He fell with it, crashing to the spongy surface with a thud. Blaster in his right hand. Left splayed against the ground, testing it. Firm. No give. Still, his head strobed in and out, attention bowing and flexing as the world pulsed indistinctly around him.

He might be hallucinating. He suspected that now.

Dragged himself to his knees. Levered back to his feet.

Raised the blaster. Tried to focus.

Everything seemed so fuzzy, so distant. The HUD told him how far to his target, but it must be reading wrong. Surely he was closer than that. Was he? Leaden legs carried him forwards without conscious thought. The inside of his visor was smeared with his own blood, further restricting what remained of his sight.

The helmet was stifling. His own breath was hot and harsh, the noise of it filling his ears. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t see.

Needed to concentrate. Needed to be able to see.

Uncertain, trembling, he reached up and pulled the helmet off. Winced as it dragged past the tender swelling of his face.

Or maybe he cried out. That would explain why the TK troops suddenly turned to his direction.

“There he is!”

“All units, respond.”

“I don’t see the girl.”

“Don’t let him escape!”

The helmet fell to the floor with a clang. This was better, he thought dully. He could breathe easier. See better, without the distracting smears of red across his vision.

Heavy footsteps. Lots of them. Armoured figures surrounding him, weapons ready.

“On your knees, prisoner!”

Crosshair turned his ruined face, surveyed his captors. Dragged in a wet breath through his open mouth.

A blow landed on his back, staggering him. He dropped to one knee, a broken whimper escaping him.

“Drop your weapon!”

Shakingly, he raised his hands. The blaster swung loosely from his right.

Heard someone step towards him. Couldn’t see them in the blind spot left by his missing eye.

The roar of an engine awakening. A chorus of engines. Shouts of surprise, and the TK troopers turned.

“Siths hells…”

Crosshair didn’t look. Couldn’t afford to look. Had to take advantage of Omega activating the line of fighter ships.

Spun the blaster, bringing it to bear. Finger closed around the trigger.

Opened fire.

Howls of pain, blaster bolts burning through armour. He didn’t know how many he hit. Didn’t know where he hit. Arms, legs, it didn’t matter. Gone was the ability to pinpoint each enemy, one shot, one kill. This would have to do, a haphazard spray of fire and a prayer that they would escape.

A fresh burst of adrenaline drove him to his feet, subsuming the emptiness that clawed at his willpower as he began to move towards the shuttle. He was lightheaded, stumbling as he staggered forwards with the blaster swinging between targets. Didn’t care if his shots hit. Couldn’t have aimed if he tried. It was enough that his continued fire forced the troopers to dodge out of his way, clearing a path for his exhausted body to follow.

His vision blacked out and in again. He realised he was on the floor, slumped on his front. When did he get there? He didn’t remember falling. Aligned his arms underneath his body. Pushed up. Struggled to get his legs to work.

“Order confirmed. Prioritise the girl. Stop her escaping!”

Crosshair raised his head. Blinked away the blurriness. Watched one of the gunships lift from the ground, turning slowly.

They were going to shoot Omega down.

Kept turning. Cannons pointed towards him.

Oh.

It was Omega.

Just in time he let his weight drop, belly pressing to the floor once more. The gunship’s cannons spoke, shells rocketing over his head and detonating against a stack of crates, starting a chain reaction as stored ammo and munitions were consumed in a rapid inferno. A blast of heat seared his back, baking even through the protective armour, and he slowly began to crawl forwards on his stomach to escape the blaze.

The ramp of the gunship lowered, exposing the troop transport hold within.

What was she doing? She was supposed to flee. Take the ship and go. Why was the ship hovering in place, entry ramp open invitingly?

Not leaving without you.

Her words constricted the broken fragments of his heart, filling him with purpose.

Not leaving without you.

He staggered to his feet, lurching forwards. One step. Then another. Another. Towards the gunship. Towards the light that spilled from the hold.

Towards freedom.

Close enough now to see her frightened face through the canopy, barely tall enough to see over the controls.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Another step. Towards Omega.

Towards salvation.

Her expression crumpled in panic. Mouth opened in a warning shout that didn’t reach his ears.

His smile faded to confusion.

Pain erupted in the exposed joint of his shoulder, protecting pauldron discarded to fit through the vent.

A blade twisted. A howl as bone sprung free of the socket.

Whirling, staggering, Crosshair faced down the soldier in his blind spot, snuck up where he could no longer see.

The knife, dripping with his blood.

The soldier lunged again, knife digging into the seam of his collar bone, so close to main arteries.

Pupil dilated with shock. Crosshair’s hand flew to his neck, pressing against the gout of blood threatening to spurt as the soldier dragged the knife back. Gripping the hilt, he kept it embedded in the wound.

The soldier struggled against Crosshair’s grip. Crosshair dropped the blaster. Tugged the knife from his belt.

So tired. Too tired to find the will to fight.

Dislocated shoulder refusing to bring the knife to bear.

He imagined a hand closing over his. Hunter’s grip, strong and sure.

Closed his one eye. Darkness, so comforting.

Drove the knife home.

A high voice, calling his name. “Crosshair!”

Hands pulled at his armour, tugging him forwards. He opened his eyes.

Omega, hauling him towards the ramp of the gunship.

Crosshair’s mind whipped back to wakefulness, the urgency of their situation crashing over him. He finally forced his legs to work, stumbling forwards under Omega’s guidance until they were both in the ship and she released him, running back to the cockpit.

Crosshair’s hands grasped for a gun he didn’t have, and he turned dazedly back to the hanger. TK troopers were recovering, emerging from cover and launching volleys of blaster-fire towards their ship. He dived to the side, a blast bolt grazing his hip and drawing another guttural cry of pain from him. His left arm wrapped across his body and he gripped his right elbow, holding his loosely swinging arm against his chest as he staggered after Omega.

“This isn’t the ship I pointed out,” he gasped in frustration, collapsing heavily against the wall.

Omega’s hands flew over the console, activating the ignition sequence. “I know,” she said. “This one had more defensive capabilities.”

“It has cannons!” he hissed. “That’s offensive!”

“Wrecker always says that offence is the best form of defence,” countered Omega. She gripped the steering column and the ship lurched forwards, towards the strip of night sky showing beyond the under-hang of the mountain. Already, fighter jets swarmed outside, anticipating their escape.

The front of his chest was growing warm and damp. The knife still embedded in his shoulder was slowing the blood loss but couldn’t stem it completely, and the stab wound that had dislocated his right shoulder flowed freely. The whole right side of his body was a mess, so much pain clouding his senses that it was hard to distinguish one injury from the next.

His breathing was shallow, rapid, skin cold and clammy. He released his grip on his own arm to steady himself against Omega’s pilot chair instead, leaning heavily against it as he tried to focus on the rushing darkness outside the cockpit.

“Can you do this?” he asked, the words laboured and indistinct. Omega glanced at him in worry, then fixed her gaze straight ahead.

“Don’t worry, Crosshair. I’ll get us out of here.”

The ship lurched as she dived, evading the fighters which raked fire towards their fleeing ship. Crosshair all but fell into the co-pilot’s seat, answering the impact with an agonised growl before forcing the restraints across his protesting body to strap in safely. He was no good to Omega passed out on the floor of the cockpit.

Omega snuck another look at him, her brown eyes pointedly following the red stain cascading down the stolen armour. Rivulets of blood trickled down his right hand, hanging limply at his side, dripping to the floor with alarming alacrity.

She gunned the engines, the ship roaring as it picked up speed. She shot through the waiting cloud of enemy ships, then killed the thrusters and hauled hard on the controls. The ship swung back round in a tight reversal, and now that the fighters were clustered in front of them she opened fire, front lasers tearing into the delicate fighters and sending them, flaming, into death spirals.

Crosshair grunted, the sound little more than a breath. “The Tech turn,” he whispered, a smile ghosting across his lips.

Omega gave a shaky laugh. “He says it’s not called that,” she told him, angling the ship up and sending them shooting towards the edge of the atmosphere.

“He’s the only one of us who could pull it off.” Crosshair’s voice faded in and out, eyes closed. His right hand twitched, fingers convulsing, as though he would reach out to her. “I guess he taught you well.”

“Stay with me, Crosshair.” Omega’s voice cut through the tiredness of his mind, calling him back from the edge of consciousness. She sounded like she was crying. “We’re nearly there.”

That’s right. Once they made the hyperspace jump they’d be safe.

“There’ll be a blockade,” he managed. Opened his eye. Watched her punching co-ordinates into the hyperspace drive.

Dragged his left arm from his lap. Wrapped his hand feebly round the co-pilot’s controls.

“You can’t do that yet. We’ll burn up if you ignite the hyperdrive now.”

Omega grit her teeth, snuffling against tears.

“We’ll make the jump as soon as we break atmo.”

He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. It seemed to be harder than he remembered. His chest, lungs, throat, didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

He trusted Omega.

Trusted she would get them out.

A sudden, high-pitched whine as the hyperdrive engine came up to speed.

The ship was rocked by vibrations as blaster fire from the blockade raked the shields.

A blinding white-blue light pierced his closed eyelid, painting his world in a haze of dark and light.

They made the jump to hyperspace.

Crosshair surfaced slowly from unconsciousness, groping about with his other senses without opening his eyes. The right side of his face still throbbed but it was a numb pulse now, pain deadened beyond layers of exhaustion and sedatives. Around him the ship was quiet, computers and engines humming idly. There was a strong smell of disinfectant.

He tried to command his left arm, found it would move. Lifted his hand to his face, pressing it over his left eye before cracking it open, breathing a gasp of relief as he saw his own palm. His sight. He still had his sight.

“Crosshair!”

His name was spoken low and urgently, but with undeniable enthusiasm. He dropped his hand and blinked the rest of the world into focus, a blonde-haired face swimming into view.

“What happened?” he croaked, wincing against the dryness in his throat.

Omega pressed a canteen to his lips and he drank greedily, the water slaking a thirst he hadn’t realised was so intense. Then she was helping him sit up, hands gentle on his aching body.

He realised he was still in the co-pilot’s chair, semi-reclined. Outside the starscape was still, pinpoints of light against the black curtain of space. They weren’t moving.

“What happened?” he repeated, and this time his voice was a little stronger.

The girl immediately set to checking his wounds. He realised most of his upper right body was swathed in bandages, and the cold of space hit him as he realised she had cut his clothes away to treat the wounds. He was covered by a thin blanket which had slid down as he sat upright, and he grabbed it now and pulled it anxiously up to cover his body.

“You passed out after we made the hyperspace jump,” she told him quietly, not looking at him as she worked. She adjusted the tension on the sling that held his right arm, then smoothed down the edge of a bandage that was peeling away on his shoulder. “Hypovolemic shock,” she added, as though it made a difference. “You shouldn’t try to stand just yet.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, lying against the light-headedness he still felt.

She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Sure.”

He let her continue her checks, until she came to his face. Her slim hands tried to rest on his cheeks but he batted them away, turning his face from her. Turning so that she was in the blind spot of his bandaged right-hand side.

“Please let me check your wounds, Crosshair,” she said in a small voice. She dropped one hand to his chest, resting it over his hand which trembled, knotted inside the blanket.

“I don’t want you to,” he said softly, trying not to sound sullen. He kept his gaze averted, sorrow etching his face.

“We need to-”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

She stopped, mouth set in an unhappy line.

“Please, Omega,” he said, and the uncharacteristic plea softened her expression. She nodded, going to sit back in the pilot’s chair.

“So where are we?” he asked after a moment, drawing her from her thoughts.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, a soft waver of worry in her voice. “I’ve sent a signal to the rest of the Batch. I’m hoping they’ll pick it up, but without Tech-”

“Echo will get the signal,” Crosshair interrupted her without thinking. “He’s good at things like that.”

A meek, watery smile wobbled onto her face. “Yeah. They’ll find us.”

Now Crosshair tilted his face to her, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure of his bruises as he returned her smile. It even crinkled at the corners of his left eye, a glint of his old fire and flint flashing in his gaze.

“That was some good flying,” he told her honestly. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, a shy grin coming to her face.

“It was pretty cool,” she agreed, a shaky laugh shuddering up through her small body. Then, “Thanks for getting me out, Crosshair.”

“You got yourself out, kid,” he said, a low admission of approval.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He touched his hand to his bandaged arm, his neck, his cheek.

“I wouldn’t be here without you either, so consider us even.”

They lapsed into silence. Crosshair reclined back into the co-pilot’s chair once more, letting the padded seat take the weight of his aching body. His head span and he closed his eye against nausea, hoping Omega wouldn’t notice his pallor.

He kept his eye closed as he listened to her shuffle, approximated that she was imitating his position. His thoughts abstracted, snatches of memories surfacing and then flitting away as he continued to hover between sleep and wakefulness.

Eventually the com beeped.

A familiar voice.

“Havoc Five, come in.”

Crosshair started, flinching awake with a cry as the movement strained his injuries. Omega was scrambling for the com, leaning over the console with a delighted gasp.

“Hunter!”

“Omega!” The relief in Hunter’s voice was tangible as a cheer set up from the background.

“Omega! Where are you?” That was Wrecker’s voice, booming with enthusiasm. Omega laughed giddily, sitting up and tapping at the controls.

“I don’t know where we are. I’m sending our co-ordinates now,” she said, quickly relaying the data.

“Received,” came Echo’s confirmation. “I’ve got your position, Omega. Hang tight, and we’ll rendezvous with you.”

“Omega.” It was Hunter again. “You said ‘we’. Did a group of you escape?”

Omega glanced at Crosshair. He was sitting up now, shaking his head slowly.

She reached out and covered the com. “They have to know,” she whispered imploringly.

Crosshair looked away. “I haven’t seen Hunter since-”

“I know.” She reached out and laid a hand gently over his. Then she turned to the com again.

“Crosshair is with me.”

“CROSSHAIR?” His name was echoed in triplicate.

“He’s injured, so he can’t talk right now,” she said quickly, saving him from the demands of conversation. “Hurry,” she added. “Please hurry.”

“We’re on our way, Omega,” said Hunter, and the com blinked off.

Crosshair sagged back, staring unseeingly out the window. The young girl stayed at the controls a moment more, before hopping down and coming over to his chair.

Before he could protest Omega had climbed up into his lap, tucking her head under his jaw, one small hand stroking the back of his neck soothingly.

He couldn’t summon the energy to fight her.

Found he didn’t want to.

“They’re going to be pleased to see you, Crosshair,” she whispered into his chest, fingers tracing repetitive lines on his skin. “Just like I was.”

Despite the way his right side throbbed, he relaxed into the comfort of her weight on his left. He brought his uninjured arm up and closed it round her, pulling her tight against him as he rested his left cheek on her soft hair.

No, he didn’t want to see his brothers. No, he didn’t want her to check his wounds, face the reality of his loss.

But laying here like this, listening to her soft breathing, he found his doubts fading.

It didn’t seem so bad when he thought of it as a trade-off.

A price paid.

His eye. Her freedom.

His little sister.

Not leaving here without you.

It would take time for his injuries to heal. But she had already mended something in him that had been broken.

He would go through it a thousand times over if it kept her free.

He closed his eye, trying not to remember the darkness at the side of his vision.

A price paid.

A fair price.

This time, as he drifted just above the threshold of sleep, he was at peace.

*check the reblogs for the epilogue!*

#the bad batch #tbb fanfic #the bad batch season 3 #tbb s3 #season 3 predictions #tbb crosshair #tbb omega #crosshair and omega #omega and crosshair #hemlock #royce hemlock #tantiss #mount tantiss #escape from mount tantiss #febuwhump #febuwhumpday15 #“who did this to you”#badthingshappenbingo #tortured for information

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whumpacabra · 2 months

Text

Day 15: “Who did this to you?”

Angst, knife wounds, bruises, rope burns, scars, shivering, crying, brief fear of homophobic hate crimes, vaguely referenced internalized homophobia, referenced death of a minor, referenced murder, firearm mention, implied past torture

[Directly follows Mouse]

Jackson was going to be in so much trouble for dipping before back-up could arrive. He was going to be in trouble for frisking a corpse without gloves. He was going to be in trouble for forgetting to re-enable his comm when chasing after a target of unknown threat level.

But mostly, Jackson thought he would be in trouble for taking that target to a quaint hotel at the edge of the city. If he was a less valuable agent, he might not be allowed to get away with a stunt like this.

The walk was long, cold, and dreary - at least Jackson’s heavy trench coat kept everything but his head dry. The stranger - ‘Wolf’ - didn’t seem to mind the weather, or at the very least didn’t complain and wonder aloud why they couldn’t flag down a taxi. He always kept a pace and a half behind Jackson, just out of arms reach. The same way he had followed Agent Smith when Jackson watched them from afar.

Curious.

Half the reason Jackson was willing to get in trouble was this stranger’s curiosities. The gun he had shot Smith with was Smith’s own weapon - Wolf himself appeared to be completely unarmed. (Not that a man of his physique needed a weapon to be lethal.) That was the first curiosity. The second was…everything after Jackson opened the closet door. He expected an ambush - a trap made from expired chemicals or improvised weapons. Not a man curled on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. Like a child hiding from a wrathful parent.

Jackson still wasn’t completely sure what a freelancer was, but it sure as hell couldn’t be this - skulking behind him like a shadow, avoiding eye contact, speaking so low he almost couldn’t understand the man. Command hadn’t been forthcoming on his identity - and Jackson knew they were keeping him in the dark, at least until the mission was done.

He was curious.

It wouldn’t kill him.

Probably.

—

The hotel wasn’t the best, but it was nice enough. Low profile, but off Command’s active radar for illegal activity hot-spots. Any good agent worth their salt had a few personal fake IDs, just in case. They wouldn’t be found here, not anytime soon.

“You can clean up first, I’m sure you could use the hot water more than me.” Jackson flashed a smile, but Wolf’s expression hardened as he nodded in reply, stalking to the washroom like a soldier on a mission.

Another curiosity.

Aside from a well disguised limp, Wolf moved like a soldier. He didn’t have the purposeful poise of an agent - American or otherwise. He took orders white seriously. Wolf hadn’t moved since he and Jackson entered the room, as if waiting for instruction. Blunt, to the point, comfortable in a hierarchy - now that didn’t sound like a runaway spy’s associate.

The bathroom door locked, and Jackson turned to the bed with a sigh. Of course they only had singles left. He paid for a couples room, even if it left his skin buzzing. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but his paranoia was acutely aware of how the secretary had raised a brow at his refusal for separate rooms.

(God, what did Wolf think of that?)

(...)

(What did they care? It was 2004 for God’s sake.)

(…)

(He still felt like the eyes of others always seemed to know what he was.)

Jackson tossed the duvet and the spare pillow to the ground. He could sleep on the floor just fine. He didn’t want to make Wolf uncomfortable. (And a small voice in his head whispered he didn’t want to give Wolf any more reason to kill him. How easy it would be for Wolf to kill him here, alone, without witnesses, and for his death to be brushed off as just another murdered poof.)

The agent turned out his coat pockets, setting what he had collected from the dead American on the bedside desk.

A room service receipt - it matched the hotel he had been staying at, but the wrong room number. Smith certainly seemed the type to choose two rooms for two people, but the sheer scale of the bill - the wine, the dinners - it didn’t meet the income of a spy in hiding. He had friends in high places (literally - Jackson would have to case the penthouse tomorrow).

The hotel room key was additional confirmation that Smith was likely traveling within the hotel. It was for the room Jackson had been stalking the last few days. The blinds were always drawn, but he could see light and movement from time to time.

The third item he snagged from the corpse was…odd. It looked like a car’s key fob, or a small, oddly shaped television remote. It only had four buttons. Unthinking, he pointed it at the television in the room, and clicked the most well worn button.

The yelp from the bathroom startled him - more so because he hadn’t expected to hear from his quiet guest. It hadn’t been particularly loud, but it had sounded distinctly pained. The thud that followed was equally concerning.

Jackson bolted to the door, stopping himself from trying the handle he knew was locked. He knocked softly, trying to keep his voice even.

“Wolf? Is everything alright?” When no reply came, he pressed his ear to the door. The sharp, agonized breathing between sobs was enough to spur him into action. “Wolf I’m going to unlock and open the door if you don’t say something.” His lock picking tools were easily slotted into the door’s mechanism. He had it unlocked, but he knocked again. “Wolf, are you alright?” The silence was deafening. “I’m coming in - please say something if you’re…”

The sight shocked Jackson to silence.

It shocked him to being 15 again. 15 and finding the corpse of a girl he had shared classes with stuffed behind the bleachers, obscenities carved into her bloodied and bruised flesh. That moment had led him here, more than a decade later. A professional MI6 agent looking down at a man beaten and bloodied that very same way, but by some cruel miracle still alive.

Jackson dropped to his knees, still processing the flesh in front of him. Bruises mottled from aged yellow to fresh blue along Wolf’s ribs, skin marred by scars and old burns. Cuts were tallied on his shoulder - like someone was keeping score - and the small, circular burns that trailed Wolf’s forearms were difficult to see against the thick bands of bruising from too-tight restraints and red rope burn. Wolf was kneeling next to the tub, keeled over with his back to Jackson. Between the blood and the bruises, the agent could make out two words etched across Wolf’s shoulder blades:

“BAD DOG”

Under the flickering fluorescent light, Jackson couldn’t read what else was carved across Wolf’s back, but those bloodied letters were cut deep into the muscle. Jackson let his eyes wander the room, finding Wolf’s rain soaked jacket and thin t-shirt neatly folded on the toilet seat. But Jackson’s eyes were once against drawn to Wolf when a violent shiver wracked his bare torso. The words contracted and stretched, weeping anew with fresh blood.

Unthinking, he let a shaking hand graze against the butchered carving before him. His words were soft, but the pity blooming in his chest made them waver with overwhelming compassion.

“Who did this to you?”

The trembling body under his fingertips stilled, and reality came crashing down on him as Jackson froze in turn. Wolf sat up slowly, broad back straightened until he sat taller than Jackson. (Blood ran in rivulets from the letters.) Dark eyes peered over his bloodied shoulder, damp with tears and expression unreadable.

Jackson was just about to jump to his feet, to mention that he had a medkit with a sterile suture needle, when Wolf lunged at him.

His brief panic at the sudden movement faded quickly as he realized what was happening. Strong arms had wrapped around him like a vice, but they were shaking - hands desperate and grasping at the back of Jackson’s shirt like he would dissolve without the contact. Jackson held Wolf’s head to his chest as he sobbed. He couldn’t touch his back without hurting him, and right now, Wolf just needed a shoulder to cry on. Jackson carded his fingers through sweaty, tangle hair and hummed soft reassurances.

Any thought of sating his curiosity tonight was discarded.

It didn’t matter who had done this, not right now. All that mattered right now was that they weren’t here.

[Directly before New Tricks]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

#whump #angst #past torture #knife wound #bruises #rope burns #scars #shivering #internalized homophobia #fear of hate crimes #referenced murder #freelancers #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday15 #I had so much fun writing this one!!! who doesn't love a good 'who did this to you?'#just. mmm. *chefs kiss* big fan of the canon wolf rehabilitation story line (even if I really miss writing Harrison….)

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