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badbatchposts · 2 months ago
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Dead Imps Tell No Tales: Chapter One
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Summary: Myria Halcorr, cook at Old Doma's brothel, had never left the Imperial port town of Koboh before she found herself having to flee Imperial justice. Seeking passage to Ord Mantell, where she hoped she could disappear, she disguised herself as a boy and begged for a job on the Havoc Marauder. She never counted on the risks of sharing a ship with former Republic soldiers turned pirates--or on falling for Captain Hunter Fett.
Relevant tags/content warnings: Hunter/Original Female Character, Slow Burn, Romance, Pirate AU, Pirate Captain Hunter, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Smut, 18+/Explicit
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Chapter One: Set Sail
The boy hurried along the bustling dock in the early morning light, dodging and weaving to keep from colliding with the sailors as they went about their duties. Everywhere he looked, men hauled crates, rolled barrels, and heaved at thick coils of rope, their activities accompanied by a constant chorus of shouts and banging. He was no stranger to the port’s lively denizens, and so he paid their rough, filthy visages—and accompanying foul odors—little mind.
Instead, the boy adjusted the floppy, gray hat perched atop his close-shorn, brown hair, shifted his pack, and peered attentively at the sides of the ships he passed, searching for the names painted prettily against their hulls. The dockmaster had described the boat he was seeking, but the words—number of masts, type of rigging, type of ship—had all washed over him, in one ear and out the other. Despite living in the port city of Koboh all his life, he had never been on the ocean before.
Finally, he spotted it, the words sending a nervous little thrill along his spine: the Havoc Marauder. It wasn’t a large ship—incomparable to one of the behemoths that the Imperial Navy kept anchored further out along the military dock at the other end of the bay—but it was sleek and obviously well-cared-for, its hull painted black with red trim and kept clean and in good repair. Above the white sails, a red and black flag decorated with a white skull missing the jaw flapped in the wind. The boy steeled himself and strode boldly up the gangplank onto the vessel.
“Listen here. We don’t take kindly to stowaways,” a young voice piped up immediately.
The boy blinked in confusion at the sight before him: a blonde-haired girl, decked out in a comfortable-looking pair of blue trousers and a red-and-white striped shirt, had a hand on her hip and gestured seriously at him with a cutlass. She couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen.
“You’re a girl,” he blurted out foolishly.
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “How observant of you. Now turn around and get out of here.”
“I’m—I’m sorry miss, I didn’t mean anything by it! I was just surprised. And—I wasn’t trying to stow away, honest!” The boy put on what was surely meant to be a brave face. “I’m looking for a job,” he clarified earnestly.
The girl’s expression softened a little, her brown eyes kind and warm, though her tone was regretful. “Well… I’m sorry, but I’m not sure we have anything for you here. This is my family’s boat—it’s just me and my brothers. We don’t really hire anyone else on.”
The boy’s face fell. “But—you don’t understand! I have to get out of here!”
“You can start by getting off my ship,” a voice behind him growled. The boy, already jumpy, practically leapt out of his skin with surprise, spinning toward the newcomer that had just strode up the gangplank.
As if the tone—low, smoky, and bleeding with danger—hadn’t been enough to thoroughly frighten him, he was now confronted with the most intimidating man he had ever seen. Fully half of the man’s face was blacked out by a tattoo, the inky lines forming the relief of a skull against his warm brown skin. More of the tattoo peaked out from under one long sleeve, decorating the back of his hand with delicate carpal and metacarpal bones and phalanges. The crooked tilt of his strong nose, surely broken at least once in his life, seemed to speak to a history of violent scraps and barroom brawls. His long, brown hair was held back by a red kerchief embroidered with yet another skull, atop which settled a black tri-corner hat. A long black coat, trimmed with red, did little to disguise the pistol, cutlass, and dagger arrayed at the man’s hip. As he spoke, glaring down at the boy, he fingered the hilt of his cutlass menacingly, and the boy gulped, starting to think he would be better off looking for a job on any other ship besides this one, despite his desperation.
“Hunter! You’re scaring him,” the girl scolded. The boy blinked, momentarily shocked at her bravery in standing up to what was clearly a dangerous man, before he realized that this must be one of the brothers she had referred to. She turned back to the boy sympathetically. “Why do you need to leave? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Uncertain, the boy looked pathetically back and forth between the siblings, nearly getting whiplash from the difference between their expressions: a gentle smile from the young girl and a dark scowl from her older brother. He squeaked a little when he finally tried speaking, needing to clear his throat to get the words out.
“Um… what I need is… well, I need passage to Ord Mantell, but I don’t have enough to pay… and the dockmaster, he said that your route stops there anyway, and I thought that maybe I could barter passage in exchange for work…” The boy let his words peter out uncertainly.
The scary man—Hunter—and his sister seemed to be engaged in some sort of silent battle of wills, communicating through a staring contest which the boy couldn’t tell who was winning.
“Omega…” Hunter sighed warningly. A few more moments of her pleading look later, he turned to frown at the boy again.
“Why do you need to get to Ord Mantell so bad?” he questioned. “You’re not running away from home, are you, kid? Are your parents gonna be looking for you?”
The boy squirmed a little under his scrutiny. “I’m an orphan, sir. I was an errand boy in one of the big houses, but yesterday my master accused me of stealing. I didn’t do it, I swear, sir! But he said he’d report me to the authorities, so… I have a cousin who lives in Ord Mantell, and I thought maybe it was best if I go stay with him for a while.”
Hunter glanced again at Omega, then back to the boy. He sighed again. “Show me your hands, kid.” The boy furrowed his brows in confusion but did as asked. Hunter gripped them and turned them palm side up, nodding a little at the callouses and scars that were evidence of a body accustomed to labor. “You ever been on a ship before?” he asked.
The boy shook his head. “No. But I can cook, sir. I helped in the kitchens sometimes when there weren’t errands to run. And I can clean. And I’m a fast learner,” he expounded eagerly.
Omega brightened and elbowed her brother. “Echo was just saying he was tired of doing all of the cooking, remember, Hunter? This way Echo could get a break, and we won’t have to worry about what the others would try to pass off as food if we made them take a turn!”
Hunter shook his head skeptically, but it was obvious his resistance was crumbling, and he gave in with a final, conciliatory growl. “Fine. Passage to Ord Mantell in exchange for cooking and whatever else we can put you to work doing around here. But it’ll be a good few weeks before we get there, and we have stops to make along the way. And…” He took a menacing step toward the boy, towering over him. “Just know that if you so much as look at my sister the wrong way, I’ll have you thrown overboard.”
With that, Hunter—the Captain, he must be, the boy realized—strode off, leaving the boy gaping, half terrified, half unable to believe his luck.
“So—what’s your name?” Omega asked, positively beaming with satisfaction, not troubled in the least by her brother’s threats.
The boy shook his head to clear it, still recovering. “M-Marvin,” he stammered.
“Well, Marvin, welcome aboard!” Omega replied cheerfully. “I’ll show you around the ship, and by the time we’re done my brother Wrecker should be here and we can help him load the cargo!”
In a daze, Marvin followed Omega dutifully as she gave him the tour, trying his best to memorize the names of all the locations as she pointed them out. Just the names of deck areas and masts topside was dizzying enough, not to mention the dark corridors below.
“Here’s Hunter’s quarters, he’s the Captain so he gets his own, and my brother Wrecker converted a storeroom so I could have my own space, too,” Omega chattered brightly, gesturing at the doors below the quarterdeck, then leading him down a set of stairs. “Down that hall is the berth, my other brothers sleep in there, and the cargo hold is further down this ladder, you’ll see that when we start loading. Gonky is probably down there, he’s our cat, he takes care of the rats for us. This way is the galley and the ship’s stores and the mess, which we don’t use a lot because we usually eat outside when the weather is good, so maybe we can put a spare hammock up in there for you and you’ll be close by for cooking!”
They stepped into the small galley, which Marvin examined closely. The floor was lined with sheets of tin, protecting the wooden ship from the risk of stray embers. Cabinets set against the walls created counters for food preparation. At the center of the room stood a large iron stove atop a stone hearth where something was simmering in a big copper pot. The stove had rails to prevent the pot from tumbling over with the rocking of the ship on the water.
Omega was watching the boy expectantly, perhaps waiting for his approval of his new workplace. He nodded and gave her a small smile, storing his pack in a nearby cabinet.
A series of staccato footsteps announced the entrance of another brother to the galley. Marvin turned, wide-eyed, to take in his appearance. His brilliant gold-brown eyes resembled Hunter and Omega, but he was considerably paler and gaunter than his brother and sister, and his bald head contrasted with their longer manes. Perhaps most notably, both legs below the knee had been replaced with wooden peglegs, and instead of a right hand he boasted a pair of movable hooks that he fidgeted open and closed by pulling at a mechanism further up his arm. Like the Captain, a pistol and cutlass hung at his belt, standing out strikingly against the black and red sash tied around his waist.
“What’s all this then, Omega?” the man asked, a little grumpily.
“Echo! Great news,” the girl gushed. “This is Marvin. We’re taking him to Ord Mantell, and he’s going to cook for us while he’s here!”
“You don’t say?” Echo chuckled, instantly mollified. “Well, I won’t complain about that. Good to have you aboard, kid. Let me know if you need any help getting used to the galley. It’s not supposed to be my job, but since the rest of this lot can’t be trusted I’m about the closest thing to a cook we’ve had.”
Marvin ducked his head politely. “I will. Thank you, sir.”
A series of heavy thuds and exuberant shouts came from above deck. Echo rolled his eyes.
“That’ll be Wrecker. Better head on up and help him, kids.”
Grinning, Omega led Marvin topside once again. The boy blinked as he emerged back into the sunlight—only to come face-to-face, for the second time that day, with another of the most intimidating men he had ever seen.
The man who could only be Wrecker was impossibly large, towering above Marvin and Omega, with the broadest shoulders the boy had ever seen. He came striding up the ramp onto the deck carrying a barrel like it weighed nothing at all, though the loud thump as he set it down attested to the fact that Marvin could hardly have hoped to roll it along with ease, much less carry it aloft. A large, nasty scar spiderwebbed along the side of the man’s head, leaving his ear twisted and deformed. Based on the extent of the damage, Marvin imagined that the eyepatch that Wrecker wore on the same side covered an empty socket. A broadsword and pistol hung at the sailor’s hips, and his white linen shirt hung loosely at his collarbone, exposing a thick coiling of chest hair, despite Wrecker’s shiny bald head.
Marvin almost took a step back in fear when Wrecker swiveled and caught sight of him, though the man was grinning down at him like a madman.
“Who’s your friend, Omega?” the giant asked, in a booming voice that was practically a shout.
“His name’s Marvin!” Omega answered loudly back. “He’s going to be our cook for a few weeks while we give him a ride to Ord Mantell! Wrecker doesn’t hear very well, so you’ll have to speak up,” she added as an aside to Marvin.
Wide-eyed, Wrecker’s smile somehow grew impossibly bigger. “Ooh! You any good at makin’ fish pies? There’s a place in town here makes the best fish pie I ever had!”
Marvin, mouth gaping at the surprise of the friendly reception from such a terrifying individual, barely managed a meek nod. His knees nearly buckled when Wrecker clapped him on the back delightedly.
“Well then, good ta have ya aboard! Now let’s get all this sorted.”
He gestured toward the pile of cargo waiting for them on the dock, and the kids followed his direction in helping to load the goods onto the Marauder. Wrecker, of course, managed the larger crates single-handedly, while Omega and Marvin handled items more suited to their size or combined their strength to carry bigger items. Omega took some time to give Marvin an overview of where things should be stored in the hold, pointing out where they kept their own supplies separate from the merchant goods they transported.
“This is my favorite part,” she whispered conspiratorially as she led Marvin toward a tall crate in one corner which stretched nearly to the ceiling. Grunting a little, Omega managed to push the crate to the side, revealing a gap in the wall the size of a small doorway. More items were piled up haphazardly in the little room that lay beyond. “This is where we keep the good stuff!” she informed him cheerfully.
Marvin looked over the room, wide-eyed. “You’re smugglers?”
��Everybody who docks in Ord Mantell smuggles something!” Omega laughed.
The boy managed a shrug as the girl returned the crate to its strategic position, disguising their secret once more.
By the time they emerged back on deck only a few bits of cargo remained on the dock. The pair stopped short, however, when they noticed a commotion making its way up the pier. Wrecker, arms folded, was glaring in the direction of several Imperial soldiers who were pushing their way through the crowds of sailors, interrupting dockworkers at their labor to interrogate them. Hunter watched on as well, leaning his arms against the railing. A group of soldiers, their long muskets glinting in the sunshine, strolled down the ramp of the ship anchored across the way and then boarded the Marauder.
The official who appeared to be leading them stopped short and surveyed the motley crew, expression dripping with distaste. Marvin tensed and shifted his feet nervously, but the man took little notice of him, especially as his gaze landed on Omega.
“Young lady, your manner of dress is indecent and un-ladylike,” he observed snidely.
“Says you,” the girl snapped, rolling her eyes.
The Imperial scoffed in offense. “Who is in charge here?” he demanded.
Hunter stood at his full height and stepped forward, eyes hard as steel. Though his brother dwarfed him in size, his presence was no less commanding.
“That’ll be me. Captain Hunter Fett. And seeing as she’s my sister and this is my boat, I’ll decide what’s decent. Wanna tell me what you think you’re doing on my ship?”
The official looked him up and down with abject disdain. “My, my. Captain Fett. If it were up to me, you’d still be rotting away on Narkina-5. But in any case, we are required to search your ship.” He gestured to the soldiers that accompanied him, who headed belowdecks without waiting for further permission.
Hunter merely grunted in annoyance and didn’t rise to the obvious bait. “That so? You mind telling me why you feel the need to search my ship?”
The Imperial further straightened and looked down his nose haughtily at the Captain. “We are in pursuit of a dangerous fugitive from the law who we have reason to believe may attempt to stow away to escape justice.”
“Ooh, a dangerous fugitive. Scary,” Hunter commented mildly. As if such a man was scared of anything. “What’s this dangerous fugitive look like?”
“I’m afraid we have been unable to have a likeness drawn up,” the Imperial sniffed. “But the criminal is described as a young woman, approximately twenty to twenty-five years of age, short in stature and slight of build, with brown hair sitting just below the shoulders. She is known by the name Myria Halcorr.”
Hunter hummed thoughtfully. “Doesn’t sound so dangerous to me. What’d she do?”
“I assure you, she is of the most fiendish sort,” the Imperial condescended. “She is wanted for the murder of an Imperial officer.”
The Captain’s face betrayed no surprise, only vague interest. “Huh. And when did this happen?”
“In the early hours of the morning. Shortly before the first bell.”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose this would have anything to do with the commotion around Old Doma’s around then, would it?”
The soldier stiffened. “I’m certain you don’t mean to imply that an officer of the Imperial Navy was consorting about such a… disreputable establishment,” he replied distastefully.
Hunter scratched at the scruff darkening his chin innocuously, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Of course not. Just, there was an awful lot of screeching there around that time… but I’m sure it wasn’t that kind of screaming, eh, lads?” The Captain shot a quick wink toward a guffawing Wrecker before continuing. “But you’re right, that’s no place for fine, upstanding soldiers like yourselves, so you wouldn’t be familiar with any of that sort of thing.”
The Imperial pursed his lips, looking as though he was running out of patience with the conversation. Luckily his companions seemed to have finished with their inspection of the hold, coming above deck emptyhanded, followed closely by an irritated Echo. The official expelled an aggravated huff.
“Well. If you see anything suspicious on your travels, remember that you have a patriotic duty to report it.”
“Oh, we’ll be sure to keep an eye out for her,” Hunter agreed pleasantly.
Giving the crew a final skeptical glance, the officer turned on his heel and marched off, followed closely by the two other soldiers.
The Captain glanced at his brothers. “Right boys? We’ll keep a close eye out—so we can thank her.” He spat on the deck at his feet, shooting a look of unmitigated disgust at the backs of the retreating Imperials before stalking off.
Omega let the scowl she’d held throughout the confrontation soften as she glanced over at Marvin. “We don’t like Imperials,” she muttered darkly.
Marvin furrowed his brow, expression troubled. “Me neither.”
The sun was nearing its apex by the time they finally finished stowing the remainder of the cargo. Marvin, returning to the main deck from down below after one final trip lugging cargo, took a moment to stretch and wipe the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the ship. A small coop and pen near the bow held a few hens, which Marvin assumed were meant to provide them with eggs during their journeys. Nearby, A gray tabby cat perked up when it spotted him. The cat waddled over, stopping partway to examine him curiously. It looked a little worse for wear: its fur was patchy in places and it was missing part of one ear.  
“Gonk,” the cat stated plainly. Marvin wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, or even whether that was a normal noise for cats to make. He’d certainly never heard anything similar from any of the alley cats when he used to feed them kitchen scraps.
“That’s Gonky,” Omega informed him cheerfully. “Come here and meet Marvin, Gonky!”
Gonky only stared at him a moment before turning to saunter slowly away.
“Bad luck, that is,” a slithery drawl commented. A tall, slender man strode up the ramp onto the ship, scowling in Marvin’s direction. Though of an age with the other Fett brothers, this one’s hair was a premature, ashen gray, apart from a bald patch on one temple where he had an angry scar. A tattoo of a circle and cross decorated one eye, and a pipe dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth. He wore a long, brown coat and seemed to have an armory’s worth of knives tucked into his boots, not to mention the pistol at his waist and musket strapped to his back. A large gray dog followed close at his heels; its square head, powerful jaws, and barrel chest would have been intimidating, if it weren’t for the pleased loll of its tongue as it trotted over to Omega to receive a few friendly pats.
Behind him, a man with receding brown hair and gold, wire-framed glasses huffed in displeasure.
“There is no scientific evidence supporting the superstition that a cat approaching a sailor halfway and then turning around indicates coming poor fortunes. As you well know, Crosshair.”
The final Fett was significantly better dressed than his brothers. A pair of clean, well-fitted gray trousers and a matching waistcoat over a pristine white shirt were complemented perfectly by the drape of a gold watch chain from one of the pockets. He held a well-loved brown leather journal in one hand, and nodded politely toward Marvin and Omega as he came aboard. However, his gentlemanly clothing and manners didn’t mean he was any less deadly; he carried two matching pistols as well as a rapier at his belt, alongside an assortment of mismatched tools and quill pens peaking out of his many pockets.
“Stow it, Tech,” Crosshair snapped back rudely. Tech only rolled his eyes and huffed again. It had the air of a well-trod argument.
Crosshair turned his glare down towards Omega. Marvin nearly shivered at the idea of such an expression being directed at him, but the girl only beamed up happily at her brother. “What’s with the kid?” he demanded.
“Marvin, meet Crosshair, Tech, and Batcher,” Omega introduced. “He needs to get to Ord Mantell, so he’ll be our cook for the next few weeks.”
Crosshair raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting soft, Hunter. Haven’t we picked up enough strays?”
Marvin jumped as Hunter came up behind him; he hadn’t even realized the Captain had come out on deck.
“It’s temporary,” the Captain groused. “Grab lunch from what’s left of breakfast, and then get to work. I want out of here on the tide.”
“Porridge again?” Wrecker complained.
“Easy, Wrecker. Echo will show our new cook where everything is in time for dinner.”
Marvin trailed after the group as they trooped into the galley, looking a little lost, but Omega helpfully handed him a pewter bowl and spoon and encouraged him to help himself to the bubbling porridge on the stove. He blinked at it for only a moment before digging it. It was an unappetizing gray color with little flavor and a gluey texture, but he hadn’t eaten since the night before and the long morning of lifting, carrying, and dragging cargo had only added to his hunger. Still, he was already thinking of ways to improve on it, if this was what the sailors were used to eating.
The siblings wolfed down their food even more quickly than he did and were already on their way back topside, shouting and grumbling good-naturedly to each other, by the time he was scraping the last of his porridge out of his bowl. Only Echo remained to chuckle at the boy’s voracious appetite.
“Alright kid, let me give you the lay of the land before I head back up.”
Echo spent the next few minutes patiently explaining the basics of the galley for someone who was familiar with a common kitchen, but unfamiliar with the peculiarities of a fire hearth. Then he gave Marvin a quick rundown of their inventory of victuals in the cargo hold and left the boy to wash the dishes from lunch.
Marvin breathed deeply, savoring his first moments of peace and solitude since this whole adventure began. Then he got to work.
It was obvious to him that the Captain didn’t really want him here. The others ranged in enthusiasm—Crosshair’s venomous glare had made him worry that he might actually be thrown overboard, contrasting with Wrecker and Omega’s enthusiasm, while Echo and Tech seemed more or less indifferent.
So, as the ship launched from the dock and they began sailing into the harbor, leaving Koboh and everything he’d ever known behind, Marvin resolved to do his best to be indispensable to the crew until they finally arrived in Ord Mantell and could go their separate ways. He would scrub the galley from top to bottom, cook the best damn food they’d ever had—anything to make sure he was treated well by this crew of clearly dangerous men (and one sympathetic, but probably also dangerous, young girl).
He didn’t even take a moment to return topside to give Koboh one final, backward glance. It would have hurt too much.
Throughout the afternoon, Marvin worked double-time. He cleaned not only the dishes from lunch, but several pots encrusted with bits of food that were so old they threatened to develop sentient life. He threw together a simple stew of root vegetables and salt beef, baked several loaves of bread, and planned menus for the next few days so that tomorrow he could begin any necessary preparations in advance. Then he spent the last few hours before dinner making butter, cheese, fruit leathers, and jams from some of the fresh milk and fruits they must have picked up that morning in port. When at last he was satisfied with what he had accomplished, he set the bowls of stew, bread, and fresh butter out on several trays and carefully navigated the rocking of the ship to bring them out on deck.
“Oho! Aren’t you a sight!” Wrecker declared exuberantly as he relieved Marvin of the trays. “Chow time!”
Crosshair came swinging down, hand-over-hand, from his perch in the crow’s nest and was joined on the deck by Batcher. One by one, the brothers quickly seated themselves atop a group of crates. Tech, who had been piloting, was relieved at the helm by Hunter, who encouraged his brother toward the food with a gentle push. In the fading light of the early evening, Marvin could have sworn that the fierce Captain’s eyes softened as he gazed briefly toward where his family gathered for their meal, but before the boy could be sure, he blinked, and then it was gone.
In the meantime, Wrecker had begun digging in enthusiastically, tearing off a hunk of bread to dip into the stew. His eyes widened as he chewed with his mouth half-open. “Marvin! S’amazing!” he announced, sending a few spittle-flecked crumbs flying.
Tech sniffed. “There is no reason to be uncivilized about it.” He took his own measured bite with his spoon and blinked. “Although it is quite good,” he admitted.
Echo and Omega responded with similar levels of praise, and even Crosshair set down his pipe to give the meal his full attention. Batcher rested her leg upon the broody man’s knee, peering up hopefully for scraps. Marvin pretended not to notice when Crosshair slipped her a crust of bread and made a note to bring Batcher the last of the porridge later.
Once Tech and Echo had set down their bowls they got up to light the lamps, and when Omega had finished, she climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck to deliver Hunter his portion, returning shortly to lean contentedly on Wrecker’s shoulder. The big man wrapped his arm happily around his younger sister and hugged her to his side. Marvin gazed on wistfully as the siblings rested peacefully together in the gathering darkness.
“You’d think you’d never seen an old injury before,” Crosshair observed snidely.
Marvin’s eyes grew wide. “No— I mean— I wasn’t looking at that—” he stammered.
Wrecker barked out a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about it none, kid, I know we’re a sight! War left a lotta scars on us. But hey, every new scar means we’re still alive, don’t it?”
The boy furrowed his brow, looking over the crew in new light. “You were soldiers?”
“Aye, the best of ‘em! Special Force 99!”
“For the Separatists or the Republic?” Marvin blurted out.
Wrecker scoffed. “Why, the Republic, o’ course! Kid thinks we were a buncha Seppies, can ya believe it?”
“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—"
“Not like the difference matters much anymore,” Crosshair muttered. “Republicans, Separatists, they’re all filthy Imperials now.” He spat on the deck for emphasis.
Marvin’s eyebrows drew even closer together, his confusion plain. “But—that means you all left? When the Republic became the Empire?”
“Sure did,” Echo muttered darkly. “Paid for it too, when they caught up with us. Six months in an Imperial prison for us, a year for Hunter as our leader, and scars all over his back as a souvenir to remember it by.”
“And it would have been longer,” Tech elaborated, “if we had not agreed to complete a long and rather distasteful mission in exchange for amnesty.”
“Kid doesn’t need to hear about that,” Hunter interrupted gruffly. He looked over his siblings sternly as they turned guiltily toward him. Even Omega looked crestfallen at the subject, and Marvin shifted uneasily. “Been a long day. To bed with the lot of ya,” Hunter ordered. “I’ll take first watch.”
The Captain handed his bowl to Marvin and caught his eye as the others set off toward their rooms. The boy tensed, expecting a reprimand.
“Good job today,” Hunter muttered quietly instead. He clasped Marvin’s shoulder for the briefest moment before returning to the helm, leaving the boy staring, stunned, after him.
Marvin finally shook himself out of it and returned to the galley. Though he felt dead on his feet, he dragged himself back above deck with a meal for Batcher—who thanked him gratefully by licking his face clean—then finished washing the dinner dishes by candlelight. He took some time to wash the sweat and dog slobber from his face and arms before retrieving his pack and entering the mess to the welcome realization that someone had already strung up a hammock for him. He leaned heavily against the table and took a deep breath.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder to check that he was alone, the boy slipped his shirt over his head and loosened the tight bindings around his chest, feeling the relief of the pressure and knowing it would feel sore when they were rewrapped tomorrow.
Myria Halcorr tucked the bindings into her pack and pulled her shirt back on swiftly, massaging her breasts to relieve the ache before she finally lay down. Only one thought echoed in her brain as exhaustion sent her swiftly to sleep.
One day down. One day further away from all that was waiting for her back in Koboh. One day without her secret being discovered.
Next chapter
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misstoodles-doodles · 3 months ago
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Patching Up & Post-Mission Debrief (AU)
AKA a 3 character sketch that got way WAY out of hand.
Close ups:
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shellshooked · 1 year ago
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yeah you thought that this was the end?
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badbatchposts · 3 months ago
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The Lula tattoo is so perfect for him!!!
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@wrecker-week prompt: Pirate AU
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99aceace · 2 months ago
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Illustrations for @niobiumao3's age of sail bad batch AU.
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sailforvalinor · 1 year ago
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Me, watching TBB Season 3:
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verycorrect-tbbquotes · 3 months ago
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Hunter: There will come a time when you have a chance to do the right thing.
Crosshair: I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.
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badbatchposts · 3 months ago
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YEA I love this story!
Pirate Batch- Echo- Part 5
Woo! It continues! You better believe I'm posting this without editing it!
This is a heartfelt conversation/ exposition dump/ worldbuilding nonsense shoehorned in cause I felt like it. Enjoy! Also, Rex keeps saying Echo's name cause he missed him :)
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“Echo?” Rex’s mouth hung open in abject astonishment. “No. You can’t be Echo. You- you’re dead!”
Echo forced a weak smile. “Surprise?”
“But you can’t- No- no way. You can’t be alive; I can’t have left you while you were still alive!”
“Rex. It’s really me. It’s Echo-” but his reassurances didn’t seem to be helping at all as Rex rose back to his feet and stumbled a step away from him.
“Crosshair!” Rex roared as he marched back towards the sniper, whose head was craned as far as he could to watch the proceedings. “This is not funny!”
Crosshair gave an disgruntled huff as both Rex and Howzer loomed menacingly over him. “I’m not laughing, am I? That’s your pet soldier buddy, isn’t it? The one whose name you write into your journals and whisper in remembrances? The one you left-”
Rex socked him in the face with a blow that put Howzer’s efforts to shame. “Shut up! I swear to Manda, Crosshair if you say one more word, I really will be sending you back to Hunter in a box!”
Crosshair hissed a laugh. “Ohhh, touchy subject, is it?” He spat blood at Rex’s feet. “Torturing prisoners isn’t like you, Captain.”
Echo winced and tried to will Crosshair to stop talking.
“Shut your mouth Crosshair, I mean it!”
“Sir yes sir,” Crosshair crowed, and Rex pulled his fist back again.
For the sake of Crosshair’s probably broken nose and everyone’s collective sanity, Echo decided to intervene. “Rex!” he called the man’s attention back towards him. “Not all dominos fall, Rex! I’m still alive, it really is me, and I remember you. I hoped you could… tell me what happened to me?”
Rex seemed to deflate as he stepped back towards Echo’s corner. All traces of aggression were gone from his stance, and he slumped to sit against the wall beside Echo. “I’m sorry Echo. I should’ve kept my temper.”
Echo tried to be reassuring. “Hey, I don’t blame you. I’ve known that man a grand total of two days and I’ve already seen how quick he gets under people’s skin. But…” he leveled a cautious glance at Rex. “That really isn’t like you. Was it something he said? About me?”
Rex glowered, but he answered in a carefully calm voice. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind, Echo. I would never do that to you. You were… dead.”
Echo put a careful hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rex. My memories of… before… are hazy at best. I haven’t the foggiest idea how I became this-” he gestured theatrically at himself with his metal hand, “but I do remember you. And I’m damn sure that whatever happened to me wasn’t your fault.”
Rex looked at his hand on his shoulder. “I wish I could believe you, Echo. But at least I can try to make up for all that now. You were looking for me?”
“Yes. I need you to tell me what happened. To me, to you, to the whole kriffing republic! What the kark is the Empire, Rex? What went so wrong?”
Rex gave a forced-sounding chucked. “Is that all? Well, if you’ve got some time, I can tell you about all of that. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“N-” Echo was about to shake his head no when a flash of recollection struck him without warning. A brief glimmer of happiness, completion, a laughing face with a tattoo on the temple. A name came to him.
“Yes, actually. Where’s Fives?”
When he spoke the name, Rex’s face fell. He ducked his head and gently removed Echo’s hand from his shoulder. He heaved himself to his feet as in a choked voice he said, “Yeah. I can- I can help with that too. Just- give me one minute, will you?” He walked back across the room to stop in front of Crosshair. From his awkward angle, Echo couldn’t see Crosshair clearly, but he hoped the sniper wasn’t about to do anything stupid. Well, anything else stupid, feral little tooka cat.
Rex noddled to one of the men hovering around the room. “Gregor, cut him free, will you?” The man pulled the hood and mask off his face and gave a cheery little salute of acknowledgement. As he cut through the ropes- with a rather formidable looking blade, Echo noted- Rex spoke again.
“I apologize for losing my temper, Crosshair. You did not deserve that, even if you are a complete aaray-shebs who can’t keep his nose out of my business.” As the ropes fell away, Crosshair’s hands came up and forced his broken nose back into alignment. He made a pointed show of ignoring Rex’s remorse and the way the man winced at the sharp crack of Crosshair’s nose realigning. Rex tried to continue. “I mean it. You aren’t my enemy.”
Crosshair slipped away from the pole as soon as he was able, waving aside Rex’s apology. “Yep, fine, whatever. Same time next month?” he directed this last goad at Howzer, who growled audibly in response.
Crosshair ignored them and looked back towards Echo. “I’ll be around, Tinman. Don’t do anything stupid.” He gave him a severe look before he turned and sprinted from the room so quickly it looked as if he had vanished into thin air.
“Thank Manda that’s over,” Rex sighed. Echo watched Howzer, Fireball, Gregor, and a fourth figure who had yet to remove his mask exchange glances behind Rex’s back as he returned to Echo and proffered a hand. “Now we can talk.” The others took their cue and dispersed through the far tunnels, leaving Echo and Rex alone in the cavernous room.
“So,” Rex began awkwardly, “I see you’ve met the Bad Batch?”
“Yep,” Echo chucked faintly. “Colorful characters, aren’t they?”
“That would be an understatement. But they’re good lads. I’m glad they found you instead of someone else. Where… did they find you?”
Echo scoffed. “Well apparently, they thought it was a bright idea to raid Skako Minor. According to Tech, they found me completely by accident.”
“Ha! That sounds like them. Is that where you got…” he trailed off as he gestured vaguely to Echo’s metallic limbs.
“Yeah, I’ve got some fancy new illegal technology embedded into my flesh. It isn’t pretty, but I guess I’m still alive. I’ve been a guest of Wat Tambour ever since- well, actually I was hoping you could tell me what happened before that.”
Rex blanched but answered. Slowly, measured, as if every word had to be examined at great length before being spoken. “You were under my command during the war. We were the 501st. We were the best, and that included you. I… I don’t know what you remember about the war, but you were one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever had the pleasure of training. Land and sea, you did it all. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I was- am- of you and… and Fives.”
Echo’s mind began to whirl. Memories of his service, of Rex in a blue uniform, of himself standing tall and proud among his brothers-in-arm. One man’s smiling face, eerily alike to his own. Were all these half-remembered people dead? Who were they? Who was Fives to him and why did it hurt to hear his name? So many questions he wanted to ask, but he kept silent and let Rex continue.
Well, no. He thought he had kept silent, but one question must have slipped out under his breath. He didn’t think it was audible, but Rex reacted like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Fives was your brother, Echo. Your twin. You grew up together. I don’t… I can’t believe you wouldn’t remember that.”
Echo felt anger surge up suddenly. “Well excuse me if I don’t know what the kark is going on, on account of spending kriff knows how long in the dungeon of a demented mad scientist! Is this story going to cover brain damage? Because I’d really like to know why I don’t remember my own twin!”
As quickly as it came, the rage fled. Echo deflated and slumped lower against the wall. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Rex edged closer to him until their shoulders brushed. He caught Echo’s arm with his own. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m just surprised is all. It’s a lot to take in.”
Echo snorted. “I’ll say. Would you like to continue? I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”
Rex laughed briefly before sobering. “Sure, but feel free to interrupt at any time. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and I’m not sure what you remember, so I’ll try to give you an overview, okay? Then we can fill in the details from there.”
“You and Fives were part of a five-man squad. Domino Squad. You were shiny new recruits when three of you died. All that remained was you and Fives. I picked the two of you to join my Torrent company. We fought the Separatists for a long time. Eventually, we were given a special mission- infiltration. We were sent to retrieve prisoners from a facility called the Citadel. One of these was a man called Tarkin, who incidentally is still out for our blood, but we’ll get to that. You were so brave, Echo; you tried to complete the mission, and it cost you your life. You blew up.”
Well, that would explain all the missing limbs. And probably the memory loss.
“All we could find of you was your helmet. We thought you were dead! Fives was inconsolable for a long time. He was never the same after that. I was worried he was losing his grip, to be honest. He started getting some pretty out there ideas, especially after an… incident with a friend of his.”
“That sounds… ominous.” Echo put in.
“You don’t know the half of it. Tup, his name was. I don’t think you ever met him. He got… sick. He started acting erratically. He shot his own commanding officer but had no memory of doing it! We all assumed he must have caught some disease or infection that was eating at his mind. Fives took him back to Kamino, and that was the last I heard of them for some time.”
Echo didn’t like where this was going. Kamino was his home island, but that didn’t mean he was oblivious to its dangers. The governor’s mad sister, Nala Se, was rumored to be experimenting on the citizens of Tipoca City. Some even whispered that she was practicing dark magic in that closed-off lab of hers. "What happened to Fives? Did he die?”
“He did,” Rex said. “But what is even worse is what happened before he died. Echo, he was losing his mind by the end. When he showed up again, he found me on Coruscant and was spouting madness about the Chancellor using Sith magic to manipulate people. He said it was why Tup did what he did. He begged me to listen to him but-” Rex’s voice broke, “I didn’t believe him in time. The Coruscant Guard arrived and- and they shot to kill. I’m sorry Echo.”
Echo felt numb. It made no sense. He could scarcely remember Fives existence until this day, but he felt as though a part of his soul had just died. The gnawing incompleteness drowned out all other thoughts or feelings, leaving only an aching void.
“So he died crazy.” Echo said. His voice was worryingly hollow to his own ears. “Alone and afraid.”
Rex sounded horrified. “No, Echo, I was there! I- I held him while he died! I gave him what peace I could, I swear to you.”
“But I wasn’t there. And now I’ll never see him again.”
“Echo, I’m so sorry.” There were warm arms around him, and he leaned into the comforting touch. He let his head fall against Rex’s shoulder, as much to comfort Rex as to comfort himself.
“I know Rex. It’s not your fault.”
And they stayed that way for several silent moments. Echo let himself grieve for what might have been the first time in his life, in the company of the man he trusted and admired most in the entire world.
________
When they had both regained some composure, Echo insisted they continue.
“Are you sure?” Rex asked. “You’ve already dealt with a lot, and I’m sure Hunter will come looking for you soon.”
“No, I need you to tell me the rest. How did the republic fall? What is the Empire? The world I’ve come back to is dangerous, Rex, so tell me what I need to know.”
Rex huffed, but acquiesced. “Fine. Settle in. This is a doozy.” Echo made a theatrical show of making himself comfortable against the stone wall. Rex rolled his eyes. “Alright then. The republic was winning the war. Everything was getting better. I was beginning to think that we might just be okay, but then we got word that the Jedi generals were traitors. We received an order to kill them on sight.”
“What? But they’re just some harmless mystics! They were great generals, weren’t they?”
“They were. At least, ours were. I don’t know if you remember them. Ahsoka? Anakin?”
Echo couldn’t bring anything to mind, so Rex moved on.
“Alright. That can be covered another time. Yes, they were mostly harmless, with the exception of one or two bad apples, which is also probably a story for another time. I didn’t think they could all have turned on us. But orders were orders, and a lot of the boys followed through. I know it doesn’t sound remarkable, but…. We turned on our leaders without a second thought. I felt like I was sleepwalking. It was a waking nightmare, like I wasn’t in control of my own mind. I really believed they needed to die. It didn’t last long for me. As soon as it came, it went, and I was myself again. But it was as if everyone else just didn’t care. The ship we were aboard crashed on a remote island, and I decided I couldn’t go back.
“As it turned out, I’m glad I didn’t. The Republic completely transformed into this new ‘Empire,’ with pricks like Tarkin in control and a shiny new Emperor Palpatine. I was angry that so many of my own men were going along with the new order. I didn’t think anything was amiss, until I remembered what Fives had said. Something controlling minds. Sith magic. I still thought it sounded crazy, until I saw….”
He trailed off. Echo gave him an encouraging nudge. “Go on. Whatever you tell me, I’ll believe you.”
“Cody is serving the Empire, Echo. I saw my brothers. People I grew up with. They were following horrible orders without a second thought. Cody turned on his Jedi! The one all the boys were betting he snogged-” Rex laughed brokenly- “And he didn’t even think twice. So, I have to believe that Fives was onto something. I have to believe that Cody and Wolffe and all the others aren’t in control. I know it’s a lot to ask you to believe in Sith magic, but my little underground has done some digging. There are legends that prove it might be possible, so I just have to hold out hope that I can break them out of it.”
There were silent tears running down Rex’s face, and Echo suddenly became aware of dampness on his own face as well. “I believe you Rex. I’m sorry.”
Rex swiped a hand over his eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to Fives sooner. Maybe I could’ve stopped it. Maybe I’d at least know what I’m dealing with.” He took a bracing breath. “But for now, I just help who I can. We’re trying to topple the Empire, and we’re recruiting vode to do it. The Empire doesn’t treat any of its old G.A.R. soldiers very well. Especially those of us born on Kamino. So we’re trying to get them out before things get any worse.”
“Is that how you know the Bad Batch?” Echo asked.
“Yeah. They help me out from time to time. Hunter’s an old friend of Cody’s, so we met before everything went to hell. Then the others showed up. Crosshair and Howzer aren’t allowed to be near each other, by the way. Not even I know when and how they met.”
Echo laughed and stood. “Yeah, I think I’m better off not knowing. Thank you, Rex. For everything.”
Rex stood and clasped his forearm. “Of course, Echo. You are welcome anytime. If you need help, just find me.”
Echo pulled him into a firm embrace. When he pulled away, a thought struck him.
“Uh, Rex?” he said. “I don’t know how to get out of your secret revolution bunker.
Rex’s laugh rang out loud and sudden.
“Right. Knockout protocol on entry. Sorry about that. Why don’t I walk you back to the docks?”
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keeradaks · 6 months ago
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Took part in a TBB pirate collab over on Insta, I chose Mayday, because I just knew with that beard he would make a great Jack Sparrowesque pirate!
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jumpyl123 · 6 months ago
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🌴🗡️ tech’s gf I mean pirate 🗡️🌴
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🙏 Manifesting a Phee and Hondo cameo in Skeleton Crew 🙏
One or both, I will EVEN accept nothing but a name drop!
Phee is so darn gorgeous, the prettiest pirate, Tech is a lucky guy, I miss them they deserved to get married, have kids, and live in space Greece ✨ I am SO freakin obsessed with her color palette ESPECIALLY her hair, she is so fun to draw 🥹🩵 I got to be careful when translating hair texture to lineart because it sometimes looks like intestines or something else xDDD
AND BELOW (formatting is CRAZYYY for mobile) bonus sketches, shippy art of dem dancing (Tech struggling the process the fact that Phee is goin in for a smooch, and her meeting Hondo. I NEED them to meet. Their interaction has SO much comedic potential!
Please do not trace, recolor, edit, or repost my art without permission, even if you are planning to give me proper credit!
Phee, Tech, and Hondo belongs to Lucasfilm/Disney
Made with Procreate
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twinsunstars · 6 months ago
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phee and hondo in skeleton crew when??
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badbatchposts · 2 months ago
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Dead Imps Tell No Tales: Ch. 2
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Chapter Two Summary: Myria Halcorr was a calm, softspoken woman and a hard worker. She could sometimes be withdrawn, but often was a source of considerate advice and steady support for her friends. She was not quick to anger, and she had never raised a hand in violence.
At least, not up until the moment she came upon an Imperial officer dozing in one of the guest rooms and stabbed him six times in the chest.
Relevant tags/content warnings: Hunter/Original Female Character, Slow Burn, Romance, Pirate AU, Pirate Captain Hunter, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Smut, 18+/Explicit
Specific content warnings for this chapter: alcohol, slightly more than canon-typical violence (blood and stabbing), very indirectly referenced possibility of child sexual abuse (it doesn't actually happen, it is a misunderstanding/assumption)
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Chapter Two: Cast Adrift
Myria Halcorr was a calm, softspoken woman and a hard worker. She could sometimes be withdrawn, but often was a source of considerate advice and steady support for her friends. She was not quick to anger, and she had never raised a hand in violence.
At least, not up until the moment she came upon an Imperial officer dozing in one of the guest rooms and stabbed him six times in the chest.
That morning, like every morning, she had awoken at dawn and headed down to the nearby docks, where she made her selections from the morning’s catch. She gave polite greetings to familiar faces, paying little mind as a few sailors doffed their hats toward her with sly winks and raised eyebrows. From there she headed to market, stopping by her usual stalls and smiling at the other cooks and servants doing their shopping, although the women working in the wealthier houses always ignored her with haughty looks and sniffs of disdain.
It was still early by the time she arrived back to her kitchen, where Lindi, her helper, greeted her with the ovens already lit and a warm beverage on the stove. Myria began mixing and kneading the dough for the day’s bread, sipping at her coffee in between instructing Lindi on preparing the ingredients she’d brought back. Later, as they got ready for dinner service, things would get hectic, but in the mornings, when the whole establishment was still asleep, the kitchen was peaceful.
Myria enjoyed her job. She liked her routine and the steady rhythm of her kitchen. She liked the other workers, many of whom she had known for years and considered to be good friends. It never bothered her that she worked in a brothel.
Occasionally, Myria would hear horror stories in the market from maids and cooks gossiping about their treatment in the Imperial fort, the wealthier houses, or the more respectable inns closer to the town center. If what she heard was correct—masters mistreating their servants, mistresses making unreasonable demands, soldiers turning violent, customers having drunken fits—then she was more than happy to remain employed in an establishment of ill repute, and the rest of society could look down their noses at her all they liked.
At Old Doma’s, the proprietress, long retired from active service herself, treated her workers well, and insisted the clientele do the same, or risk being banned. In fact, Myria counted herself lucky: having started in Lindi’s job at age thirteen, now at a scant three-and-twenty she already had the run of her own kitchen. Within her realm of knives and ovens and sturdy copper pots, she was in charge, and she could do what she liked, and she did it well.
The brothel was always quiet until the early afternoon, when the workers finally trickled into the kitchen from their quarters upstairs, still yawning off the activities that kept them occupied until late the night before. While the others eagerly tucked into their breakfast, Myria took a moment to get off her feet and chat a bit over tea and cookies (having had her own first meals of the day long before her friends even began stirring in their beds). She provided scraps of news she’d picked up at the docks and market in exchange for gossip from the night before and word from nearby islands passed on by the sailors who frequented the brothel. Myria and Lindi then popped up to their own quarters for a quick afternoon nap to sustain them through the establishment’s late hours before returning to the kitchen to continue preparations for the evening.
Old Doma checked in to make sure things would be ready for the early crowd, who usually took food and drink while they gambled and flirted before their more erotic activities commenced upstairs in the guest rooms. With Old Doma working the bar and Lindi delivering food, Myria hardly ever interacted with guests, preferring the controlled chaos of her kitchen to the disordered debauchery outside it.
So it was that she was already on her way to retiring for the night, dragging her exhausted limbs upstairs while Lindi finished shutting down the kitchen, when she first saw the Imperial officer.
Myria didn’t know what perverse will of the Force it was that brought her to glance into the room as she passed. She usually made a respectful effort to allow everyone in the building their privacy, but something about the way the door had been left ajar, lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway, caught her eye. The room was empty apart from the man dozing innocently on the bed, surely waiting for his companion for the evening to return with drinks from the bar downstairs. He was wearing nothing but his uniform pants, while his sword, pistol, and hat rested on the bedside table.
She jolted to a stop when she realized that she knew his face. She had dreamed of it often, always waking in a cold sweat when she did, seeing it over and over again for the last ten years.
Myria worked a lot with knives. She was an expert at chopping, filleting, mincing, and cleaving. Though she had a fine collection down in the kitchen for any and every purpose, she also always kept a small but sturdy knife on her belt, just in case she had need of it.
Myria Halcorr, a calm, softspoken woman, cook at Old Doma’s brothel, a friend to many and a quiet, routine presence to many more, crossed the room and stabbed the Imperial officer in the chest before it could even occur to her that it was a bad idea.
The man’s eyes opened, then closed once more as she pierced him again and again. He hardly moved, the only noise coming from him a quiet gurgle in his throat.
Her hands were warm with blood. She heard a scream, then a crash. Glass breaking.
She had to run.
Myria gathered up her skirts, rushing toward the window and heaving it open as masculine voices sounded behind her. She glanced back, catching only the gray flash of an Imperial uniform in the doorway, before she managed to haul herself out onto the roof, shimmying down a drainpipe into the alley behind the brothel and escaping into the dark night.
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Jolting awake, Myria nearly fell out of the hammock before she mercifully managed to catch her balance. She panted heavily and stared down at her hands, wild-eyed and momentarily unseeing. Finally, she managed to process what she was looking at.
Familiar, calloused fingers, riddled with faded scars from slipped knives and accidental burns.
No blood.
At least, not this morning.
The cook sighed and rubbed her eyes. The uncertain, watery light of an approaching dawn was shining through the porthole into the mess, and the rocking of the Marauder was both disorienting and yet strangely soothing. What she wouldn’t give to be waking up in her cozy little bed, ready to face another routine day in her own, familiar kitchen—rather than an uncertain journey among a rough and tumble group of former soldiers.
Men who absolutely could not find out who she was before she made it to the relative safety of Ord Mantell, where the cold chains of Imperial justice had not yet reached. For all she knew, anti-Imperial sentiment or not, the Fett siblings wouldn’t hesitate to turn her in—especially if the bounty was right.
Still, Myria was a practical sort, and she knew there was nothing for it. All she could do was make sure the crew had no reason to suspect she was anything less than who she claimed to be.
With that in mind, she finally dragged herself out of the hammock, hastily rewrapping the bindings that flattened her breasts before dressing for the day. The sailors that frequented Old Doma’s downed coffee morning, noon, and night, and Myria had to assume the Fetts were the same, so she grinded the beans and set the boiler on the stove. While that started, she grabbed a few handfuls of chicken feed from the storeroom and stuffed her pockets full before making her way above deck. Clucking softly to the hens, she released them from their coop and into the pen, where they happily began pecking at the feed that she scattered, leaving her to recover a handful of fresh eggs and retreat with them back to the galley.
Porridge would have to do again for breakfast, although the eggs along with a little fresh milk, honey, and dried fruit would do wonders for improving on what the crew was used to—both in texture and flavor. The vegetable peelings from last night’s dinner would be simmered all morning to become stock, and then the chickens would be happy with the strained bits and pieces to supplement their feed. She also managed to have bread dough rising by the time she heard the loud clattering of boots emerging from the berth and trudging up the stairs.
Preparing a tray with the coffee in a serving pot as well as a collection of sturdy pewter mugs, Myria followed the footsteps out into the sunny morning.
She glanced around the deck as she deposited the tray on a crate. Crosshair was meters off the ground in what seemed to be his favorite place, climbing expertly through the rigging. Echo and Wrecker appeared to be having a vigorous debate over which knot was more effective for keeping a particular rope tied in place. Omega and the Captain were nowhere to be seen—possibly still abed—and Tech was at the helm. He visibly brightened behind his wire-rimmed glasses when he spotted the coffee pot, and Myria couldn’t help but smile softly as she poured two cups and made her way to where he stood.
“Good morning,” he greeted her as he happily took the offered mug. He took a sip and hummed with satisfaction. “Your coffee is superior to everyone’s aboard apart from mine. I, of course, rank first because I am a very precise measurer and follow a stringently tested ratio of water to beans. Wrecker is last because 12.3% of the time he forgets to grind the beans first.”
Myria wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just sipped her own beverage and nodded. Luckily, Tech was happy to talk enough for the both of them.
“Feeding the hens is usually Omega’s job,” he informed her dutifully.
“I don’t mind, sir,” Myria replied, trying her best to sound more like a young boy than a grown woman. “I need to collect the eggs, so it’s no extra trouble.”
“Very well,” Tech acknowledged. He tilted his head, examining her curiously. “You appear to be a very hard worker. It is not uncommon for adolescents of your age to require more sleep than average, and yet you were awake before anyone apart from myself. And I simply had the final watch shift of the night.”
Myria shrugged uneasily. She could hardly remember a time when she hadn’t been up with the dawn—getting to the docks and the market late meant losing out on the choicest options. Should she be working less hard, so as not to draw attention to herself? Or would that mean risking their ire?
“I want to do a good job, sir,” she settled on replying. “I know that the Captain’s doing me a favor, and I don’t want to be a burden.”
Tech looked over his glasses at her and smiled slightly. “Although I do find it rather refreshing, you needn’t be so polite here. We’re rather used to more uncouth manners. We do live with Crosshair and Wrecker, after all.”
Myria only dipped her head in acknowledgement and looked over to where Wrecker appeared to have taken the coffeepot hostage and was attempting to keep it out of Crosshair and Echo’s grasp.
Perhaps Tech had a point.
“Put. That. Down,” came a growl from below. Hunter strolled out of his cabin, scowling and running his fingers through hair that was still mussed with sleep, and managed to grab the item from his brother’s grasp. Rolling his eyes, he poured himself a cup before relinquishing it to Echo, who chuckled and served himself as well as a sleepily grinning Omega. Crosshair snatched it up next with a glare that never left Wrecker’s face.
“I think you had better feed them before the situation grows any more dire,” Tech suggested mildly.
Myria smiled. “I think you might be right.”
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Although she had lived in Koboh all her life, the night of the murder Myria’s panic somehow seemed to temporarily overwhelm her ability to navigate. All she could think of was putting as much distance between herself and the brothel as possible, leaving behind the blood pooling into the grooves in the wooden floor, the Imperial soldiers who would surely be after her. She ran through the dark, empty streets and narrow alleyways until the screams and shouts were nothing but far-off echoes, and then she finally sank to her knees, panting.
She looked down at the blood coating her hands, already becoming sticky and dry against her skin. More red stains were splattered across her skirts, and she wished, almost hysterically, that she had still been wearing her apron when she’d gone up to bed instead of leaving it in the kitchen.
It was only then that it truly began to sink in.
The bastard was dead.
And he had ruined enough of her life already. She wouldn’t let him send her to the noose as well.
Myria looked up determinedly, seeking out a familiar landmark to orient herself, and found she had a stroke of good luck. Based on where she was relative to the Fort, she must be in the Artists’ District. She got to her feet and went in search of a familiar red door.
Once she’d found the right building she hammered against the entrance impatiently, eager to get inside before she could be spotted. Luckily her friend still kept late night hours; she could see the flickering glow of a lamp from an upstairs window. Even so, the impatient grumblings of a sensual yet weary voice making its way through the house betrayed the fact that such a time was no longer considered appropriate for visitors.
A moment later, the door was opened to reveal a tall woman wearing a colorful, elegantly draped shawl over her shift already in the midst of an indignant rant.  
“Really, what could possibly be—”
The woman stopped short at the sight before her, her carefully penciled eyebrows leaping into the fringe of the curly blonde hair piled atop her head.
“Nifa,” Myria managed to choke out. “I— I—”
Eyes widening, Nifa took in Myria’s bloody appearance, the panicked tears shining in her eyes. It took no more than an instant before she was ushering Myria inside.
Nifa had always been good in a crisis. Myria simply let herself be dragged along into the kitchen, where her friend lit a small lamp, built up the low fire burning in the oven, then started water boiling on the stove.
“Let’s get you washed up,” Nifa urged gently. She ladled out some of the warming water into a bowl and set to scrubbing Myria’s hands with strong soap. The artist’s hands were red with paint. It ran off as she helped Myria wash, mingling with the blood.
“Dress off,” Nifa instructed next, and helped her take off her belt, setting it on the table, and remove her outer layer. There was no fixing that stain, so the clothing went straight into the oven to burn.
While Nifa took a moment to prepare them both tea with the remaining water, Myria stared at the belt where the hilt of her knife still glinted. When she pulled it from the sheath where she must have unconsciously returned it during her escape from the brothel, it still shone with blood.
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“Damn it,” Myria hissed under her breath. She let the offending knife drop to the cutting board with a clatter as she sucked the tip of her left index finger into her mouth. The metallic taste of blood flooded her tongue.
“Ya alright?”
Myria jumped. She glanced up to find Wrecker in the doorway, clearly eyeing the fresh tea biscuits she had cooling on a counter. If she was honest, she wasn’t too surprised to see the large man sneaking in for an afternoon snack.
She nodded and offered him a few of the biscuits. “Just cut myself. All the knives in here are dull.” Truth be told, she already missed her own familiar, perfectly cared-for implements.
Wrecker’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I’ll ask Hunter to get out the whetstone,” he offered, shoving the whole handful of treats into his mouth at once.
Myria’s eyes widened in what she hoped wasn’t too obviously seen as panic. The last thing she wanted was to draw any scrutiny from the Captain. “Oh, that’s really not—”
“S’no bother! He’s the best at it, and he loves playin’ with his knives!” Before Myria could register any further protest, Wrecker had already bounded away, his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. She was still wringing her hands nervously when she heard someone else, much lighter on his feet, padding into the galley.
“G-Good afternoon, Captain,” she murmured, hardly able to meet his gaze.
Hunter’s hat was nowhere to be found, but his long hair was now tamed under his signature red kerchief. He rolled his shirtsleeves up idly as his piercing gray-brown eyes examined her, revealing swaths of brown skin and more of his skeletal tattoo working its way up his left forearm.
 The Captain’s brow furrowed. “Wrecker said you were hurt.”
“J-just a small cut, sir. Dull knives.” She held her hand up so he could see that the nick had already stopped bleeding.
He frowned and pulled a whetstone from his pocket, flipping it idly in his hand before jerking his head toward the mess. “Well. Let’s take care of it.”
Myria gathered up all the knives in the kitchen and followed, carefully laying them out on the table near where Hunter had seated himself. Though it was already soaking wet—probably dipped into one of the open-top rain barrels they kept on the deck—he surprised her by spitting on the brown stone. Though she tried to hold back her disgust, his smirk indicated that he had caught her.
“What? Worked in a kitchen and never sharpened a knife before?”
She frowned, her professional pride feeling somewhat wounded. “The knifegrinder always came by once a week. I never had to,” she defended.
Hunter chuckled, and—well, maybe he wasn’t as frightening as she had thought, with his eyes lit with mirth and the skeletal grin of his tattoo all crinkled at the edges.
“Aye, I suppose he’d be using oil. Not like what we’re used to in the field.” He regarded her seriously for a moment. “Well, come on, then, kid. I’ll show you how, and then you can try.”
The Captain spent the next several minutes explaining how to approach the task as he worked at sharpening the first knife: the importance of keeping the stone moistened, the angle to hold the blade, maintaining a gentle, even pressure. Then, when he’d finished, he pulled a rod from his pocket and showed her how to hone it. His hands were nimble, confident in their movements, almost mesmerizing. She was still distracted by them, watching in fascination, when they finally stilled and his deep, rumbling voice interrupted her reverie.
“Your turn.” Hunter stood and gestured her toward his seat, nudging the next knife toward her.
Myria hadn’t felt so uncertain holding a knife since she could remember. Still, she tried to recall all the details of his instructions, angling the blade and moving it gently up the stone.
“Like this?”
“Almost. Here.” The Captain leaned over her, pressing his chest against her back and grasping her hand to adjust the angle of the knife, and—
And Myria nearly leapt out of her skin.
Hunter stepped back immediately, hands held pacifyingly outward. Wide-eyed, Myria spun around to face him, stammering, “I’m sorry, sir!” at the same time as the Captain was speaking reassuringly, “Didn’t mean to scare you, kid, I—”
They stared at one another for a long moment. Hunter’s eyes glinted briefly with a far-off anger before softening, and then he spoke up again, slowly, voice impossibly gentle.
“I don’t know how they treated you at your last job, Marvin…but here we wouldn’t tolerate anything like that.”
Myria just nodded dumbly, absolutely mortified.
The Captain nodded back. “Right,” he said, a little awkwardly. “So just try again. Adjust your angle a bit…there you go.”
Myria did the only thing she could, and went back to the task at hand. Hunter talked her through the process of sharpening her first knife, then honing it, and supervised her next attempts until he was satisfied that she’d gotten the hang of it.
Hunter nodded. “You should be capable enough for the rest of ‘em,” he announced, a little brusquely. He headed for the door. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Captain!” Myria called after him quietly. He turned and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Thank you.” With another nod, he was gone.
He hadn’t tried to touch her again.
The problem was, as Myria finished with the knives and went back to the rest of her chores for the day, remembering the way his warm, muscled chest and calloused fingers had felt pressed against her—she rather wished he would.
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Myria was still staring dully back at the bloody knife on the counter when she finally finished narrating the whole sorry tale for Nifa. The neglected mug of tea that her friend had pressed into her hands had grown from hot to lukewarm. When she finally took a sip, she discovered Nifa had added a generous pour of Rodian spice liquor. It helped warm her up in more ways than one, the kick finally returning some of her senses, and at last she managed to meet Nifa’s eyes, who was looking back at her sympathetically.
Nifa pursed her lips. “Well, good riddance to the rat bastard.”  
Myria let a strange, desperate giggle escape before she could contain it. Once she’d gotten a hold of herself, she grew serious again. “I’m sorry, Nifa. I shouldn’t have come, if they track me here—”
“Hush!” Nifa interrupted insistently by waving her long-fingered hands through the air between them. “Unless things have changed since I retired, you know the folks at Old Doma’s will keep their mouths shut. By the time the Imps make it here, you and any trace you’ve been here will be long gone.”
“But what if—”
“It pays in more than one way to be an artist with a wealthy patron, Myria. They won’t come after me. Now let’s head upstairs and figure out how you’re getting out of here.” Nifa wouldn’t hear any further protests, dragging her up the narrow staircase. They passed through her studio, cluttered with paintings in various stages of progress alongside bare canvases and the other tools of her profession, and entered the bedroom, where Myria was unceremoniously dumped on Nifa’s bed while her friend began digging through her closet.
Nifa tossed clothing unceremoniously aside, examining some pieces critically and discarding others offhand. “They’ll have a description already. You’ll have to disguise yourself,” she tossed over her shoulder as she snorted in disgust at one apparently offensive garment. “We’ll change your hair, and they won’t be looking for a man. Luckily, I have a few things laying around…”
“A— Nifa, I can’t hide forever! Someone will figure it out!”
Her friend gave her a supremely unimpressed look before returning to her task. “Of course not. You just have to get to Ord Mantell, it’s the closest island that’s not under Imperial jurisdiction. People there mind their business, you can disappear. And no one will figure it out, you have an expert helping you. Aha!”
Triumphantly, Nifa threw down a small man’s shirt and a pair of trousers close to Myria’s size, followed by long piece of fabric. Myria picked up the fabric and examined it questioningly.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
Nifa sighed—a bit overdramatically, in Myria’s opinion.
“It’s for your breasts, Myria. What did you think people like me did?” She gestured down to her own ample bosom. “This is all padding. For the men, it’s the same principle, in reverse.”
“Well, up until now, I didn’t think that was any of my business,” Myria huffed.
Nifa only rolled her eyes back. “Here. Let me show you how to wrap it.”
Before long, Myria had re-dressed. Her other women’s garments joined those in the closet, to be altered or reused as her friend saw fit, and Nifa packed a bag with a change of clothing and a few spare rags. While Nifa finally sat behind her and began cutting her long, auburn hair, Myria poked experimentally at her flat chest.
“I’m surprised at how well it works,” she remarked.
“Just don’t wear it overnight,” Nifa warned. “Have to give yourself some breathing room. There.”
She held up a mirror, and Myria examined herself thoughtfully. It likely wouldn’t fool anyone she knew personally, but it might be enough to get her on a boat. She nodded in approval.
“Great!” Nifa clapped her hands. “Now show me your man voice and your man walk.”
Self-consciously, Myria stood from the bed. She strode around the room uncertainly, trying to remember if she’d ever even noticed how men moved. The trousers felt strange, simultaneously lighter and yet tighter than she was used to wearing on her legs.
“Uh…hello?” she intoned in as deep a voice as she could muster.
Nifa hid her face in her hands. “You’re going to jail.”
“This is impossible,” Myria groaned.
“No, no, we can make this work,” Nifa insisted. She examined Myria’s features intently. “Honestly, you’re too short and slight to come off as a man of your age anyway. But the face…you might pass as younger. A boy.”
Myria glanced toward the window, where the sky was already lightening. “I think it’ll have to do. I shouldn’t stay here much longer.”
Nifa nodded gravely and squeezed her hand. “You can do this. Just until you make it to Ord Mantell.”
They retreated back downstairs, Nifa popping back into the kitchen while Myria waited anxiously at the door. She returned with the belt and knife, rinsed clean.
“Here,” Nifa murmured, handing them over. “Get to the docks. Find a boat whose route takes them through Ord Mantell, and ask for passage in exchange for work. And when you’re out on the open ocean, throw this overboard.” She smiled, looking down at Myria fondly, then cast around her entryway for a suitable hat, which she set carefully atop the cook’s head. “Stay safe, my friend. I’ll let Old Doma know you made it out okay once this all blows over. She’ll be missing you.”
Myria bit her lip, then squeezed Nifa as tightly as she could manage. “Thank you. For everything.”
Then she set her hat more securely on her head, stole out into the street, and began making her way down to the docks.
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Myria stood on the deck of the Marauder, breathing in the cool night air. The stars spilled brightly across the sky, but there was no moon. Wrecker had the watch; she could hear him whistling tunelessly under his breath at the helm. Between the shadows and his eyepatch, she knew he couldn’t possibly see her as she leaned against the railing in her gloomy little corner.
The hilt felt warm and familiar beneath her palm.
She tossed it over the side of the ship, and watched as the knife sank to the bottom of the deep, dark sea.
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Tag List: @lonewolflupe @quincyarcher42
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darthkote · 7 months ago
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Random memes are all I have the energy to create rn. Enjoy (or don't)
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shellshooked · 1 year ago
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this just cements the argument i was talking about yesterday - it was never about hunter vs crosshair.
It was always about two brothers being two mirrors of each other all along. Just look at how they BOTH stall and avoid talking until absolutely necessary. They're both so extremely avoidant by nature it's genieunly hilarious. The confrontation they had in this episode is perfect because it's not pretty, it's not cute, it's filled with stowed feelings and looming resentment and it was supposed to be like this all along. This is truly the point in the story where they can move on from s1, from Kamino lost. Both Hunter and Crosshair can finally start to forgive themselves, start to change the way they were meant to, and I don't think this could have been possible if done individually. They were always supposed to confront each other, it was always going to come to this, and I love to see it.
Just look at the shot above - it's so peaceful. I could talk about for hours why picking the outpost as a metaphorical + physical place for this episode was a crucial and very calculated choice by the writers, but just seeing as they both come to terms with... everything. They can finally rest, they can stop blaming each other and most importantly, they can stop blaming themselves.
When Hunter says "maybe there's hope for US yet", and not "maybe there's hope for YOU yet", i cannot stress how crucial this is for both their characters and their growth. It's like, yes you made a mistake. I made them too. Mistakes happen when change comes. I would know. It's okay. We'll work through them together. and the way the lighting around crosshair is so warm, and the ice Vulture —the symbol of his regrets and grief, finally departs in the sunset. Crosshair can finally breathe. And so can Hunter.
It was never about Hunter vs Crosshair, it was always about Hunter and Crosshair.
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Pirate Batch- Christmas Special
(Happy Life Day! I wrote this very quickly and I'm posting it immediately. Maybe one day I'll learn how to write and revise my work.)
Omega was poked awake in the middle of the night to see Wrecker’s face looming over her, grinning maniacally. Her mind presented her with options.
“Who are we pranking?” she whispered.
Wrecker shook his head. “No one today.”
“What are we breaking?” she tried.
“Guess again!”
“Where are we going!” at last, she got an answer.
“We’re going into town!” Wrecker whisper-shouted, scooping her up out of bed with all her covers dragged up with her. He carried her out of her room, past the sleeping figures of the Marauder’s other occupants, and out onto the deck. He produced a coat, hat, and gloves from somewhere and left her to suit up. The night was chilly, after all, and while Wrecker was reckless, he knew better than to bring Omega home to Hunter with a cold.
Before she knew it, they were walking though dark street. Wrecker was vibrating with pent-up energy, but he was being unusually tight-lipped about their purpose.
“Why are we going into town?” Omega prompted eventually, when it became clear that no explanation was forthcoming. Wrecker stopped them by a market stall populated with trinkets and shinies. Omega was very familiar with the type of stall, but Hunter had a habit of gently steering her away from such items in favor of shopping for practical supplies.
She oohed and aahed at small pieces of sea glass and polished rocks while wrecker spoke to the lady running the stall. Omega picked up pieces of colorful fabric and handed them to Wrecker, who added them to their purchases without a word.
They walked away with several items, all extremely useless and very pretty. Omega decided to try again. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing yet?” They approached a store.
Wrecker huffed a laugh and responded, “ever heard of a thing called Life Day, kid? - Grab those little candles for me, would you?” This last part was accompanied by a wave of the hand and Omega followed the gesture to a row of tiny candles off to her left.
 She scooped them off the shelf and handed them over. “No. What’s Life Day?”
“It’s a holiday on some islands. Lots of celebrating, eating food, pretty lights, all sorts of things. It’s a good time. It’s also tomorrow.” He led them out of the store.
“Tomorrow?!” Omega echoed, “why haven’t I heard of it before now?”
“It’s a bit of a tricky subject for some of the boys,” Wrecker admitted. “Not always easy to find reason to celebrate. But I figured we could try to pull something together this year, since we got you with us an’ all.”
“So, what are we doing now?” They were veering off in yet another direction, and Omega was starting to lose track of where they were in space.
“Well, we’re picking up pretty things to decorate the ship with. And now I’m buying us Life Day presents.”
Omega looked at their new destination. A market stall selling fresh fruit. She could hardly dare to hope… “What are we getting?”
Wrecker took his time and settled on selecting six whole meilooruns. One for each of them?
Omega grinned widely as Wrecker paid for the wonderful treat and led her back toward the ship. “You really got us meilooruns? Can I eat it now?”
Wrecker patted her on the head with his free hand. “Nah, kid. Remember, they’re for Life Day. We’ll eat them tomorrow.”
When they arrived back aboard the Havoc Marauder, Wrecker stashed the meilooruns who-knows-where and came back to meet Omega on the deck. They worked tirelessly, and before long, they had created a wonderful masterpiece. Then, they went to bed.
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The next morning, Omega woke to Hunter shouting.
“Wrecker? What did you do to the mast??”
Omega smiled to herself and ran up to the commotion.
There, in the middle of the deck, was the spoils of her and Wrecker’s work. The Marauder’s mast was resplendent in shining, glittering points of color that caught the light and shone like stars. Tiny candles, suspended in spheres of glass, hung from the rigging. Omega herself had adorned the mast with colorful swatches of fabric that fluttered faintly in the sea breeze. It was magnificent.
Or so she and Wrecker firmly believed.
Hunter was… surprised to say the least.
“Aw, come on, Cap’n!” Wrecker boomed smacking Hunter playfully on the shoulder and nearly sending him flying. “It’s pretty! Me an’ the kid decided to decorate for Life Day!”
“Ah, Life Day,” Tech and Echo emerged from belowdecks as well, the former adjusting his spectacles and looking interested. “A celebration started on the island of Kashyyyk to celebrate joy and harmony. Later adopted by many others as an event of feasting and festivities.” He broke off, upon seeing the decorated mast, “Wrecker, what did you do?”
The giant groaned dramatically. “Really, guys? It’s not like I chopped the mast or anything! We just wanted to celebrate!”
Echo decided to interject, “’We,’ which means you took Omega. Off the ship. At night. Without backup.”
“She was fine, Echo, I was watching her!” Wrecker insisted.
“He was,” Omega backed him up. “I think it’s great! And we still have to give everyone presents!”
She met Wrecker’s gaze excitedly, happy in shared conspiracy, which meant she was looking in the right direction for Crosshair to suddenly appear behind him and twine long arms around his throat.
“What. Is. Happening.” The sniper hissed in Wrecker’s ear.
Echo looked alarmed, Tech untroubled, and Wrecker and Hunter amused. The big man laughed and unstuck Crosshair from his neck with all the effort of shooing a fly. “We’re celebrating Life Day, Cross! Isn’t it pretty?”
Crosshair tore his glare from Wrecker to examine the decorated mast. His lip twitched and his eyes softened for a split second.
“Hmph.” He grunted. “Did you take any of that from me?”
“No, we bought it all,” Wrecker assured him.
“…right then.,” Crosshair pointed to a colorful piece of rock with a hole through it, suspended by a piece of twine. “Can I have that?”
“Uh… sure?” Wrecker said, exchanging a glance with Omega, who nodded supportively.
The trinket had vanished by the time she looked back.
Wrecker excused himself from the general milling about and returned with his hands held awkwardly behind his back. His jerked his head at Omega, and she came over to meet him.
“Is it time?” she asked, glancing behind him at the pile of meilooruns stacked in his massive arms.
“It’s time!” Wrecker agreed, and Omega took three of the meilooruns from him so he could carry the other three more easily. His shout drew the attention of the others, who looked at the pair in surprise before noticing the fruits they carried.
“Life Day gifts for everyone!” Wrecker boomed.
The two of them distributed the meilooruns and soon the whole crew was sitting together around the mast and eating and talking happily. Even Crosshair seemed to be enjoying himself, and Echo had a strangely misty look in his eyes as he chatted to Tech and Hunter. Omega sat with Wrecker, pleased with herself and delighted to be sharing a celebration with her family. She had her new brothers to protect her, a ship to live on and a meiloorun to eat.
Sure, they were on the run from the Empire, and sure they couldn’t catch a break from constant misadventures, and sure they had resorted to selling Echo for credits once or twice, but right now, everything was okay.
They were together, they were happy, and they were okay.
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99aceace · 2 months ago
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Another illustration of @niobiumao3 's age of sail bad batch AU. And I'm not done with drawing illustrations for this story yet.
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