Chapter Text
It had been ever present, since the Order had gone down. What had once been an almost invisible tangle of threads in the back of his mind, one stronger thread curled protectively about them, had blurred and dimmed. No matter how much he’d poked, prodded, or nudged, it was invisible. That lone source of warmth, of squad, had dissolved. Ever since the Order, it had been the void. That feeling of nothingness, of an open wound that refused to heal. And yet now it was so close.
Two meters, maybe, separated them. As he stood there, stared into his eyes, he fought the urge to run forward. To throw himself into his arms, to beg that he would do anything, anything, for the return of those small golden threads. And yet he was silent as the eyes bored into him, found him wanting. He wanted nothing more than to tear off the regulation scent blocker, to burrow himself into his arms, the babbling stream of apologies in his mind flowing from his lips. And yet he was silent.
He took one step forward, two, his eyes searing into him as they stared at one another. He opened his mouth, his hands clenched at his sides, and there was a scrape behind.
“Hunter.” Echo’s voice was steady, cool, and he nearly flinched back as two sets of eyes stared at him. He nearly quailed (stupid, weak), even as Hunter took another step forward.
“I have to protect them,” he said softly. Them. Them. Not you, not us, not any longer. Outsider. Traitor. He steeled himself, took one step forward even as one hand came up, hovering in midair as he halted.
For one moment, for one brief, glorious moment, he saw it again. The little golden threads were all there, hovering gently in the back of his mind. A bunch of little golden threads, with one larger curled protectively over them. There was one more than there had been. For one moment, he was not alone.
Then, the tearing began. The golden threads began to tear away, and he gasped. Not invisible, not anymore, leaving. He dove forward in his mind, clutched at the departing threads even as he took one step forward.
“S-stop it. Crosshair, stop!” He couldn’t stop. If he let go, if he loosened his hold, they’d tear away. They’d tear away, and Crosshair would be alone, and all that would be left was the void. There was the sound of running steps, and a hard grip seized his arm. The golden thread was curled over the little bundle now, fiery and protective. He blinked his eyes, looked into golden eyes so like unto his own.
“Let it go, Crosshair.” Echo, who’d bonded to them almost immediately when he’d joined up. Echo, who’d sat them all down and taught them Mando’a (ori’vod, I am ori’vod and you are ner kih’vode). Echo, who sighed at him, even as he uncurled his steady golden thread from its protective shield.
That thread joined the familiar one, the one weakly trying to tug him away from the bundle. With one harsh yank, he slid. Another, and he slid yet farther. He tried, oh how he tried. The nails of his mind’s fingers scraped down the bond even as he slid, as he was ripped away and closer to the void. When he’d reached the end, when he clung to that last thread by the very tips of his fingers, he gave one high whine. One last yank, and he slipped away. They slipped away, giving him one last burning flash of stay away and outsider. Then, he was alone.
But he was not alone. As he raised his burning eyes, he looked into Echo’s set face. The platform dug into his knees (when had he knelt?), and he blinked in the harsh sunlight. Echo stepped away, placed one hand on Hunter’s quavering shoulders. Hunter, whose own eyes were shining as he gazed at him.
“C’mon, kih’vod. You did good,” Echo whispered. They turned around, went back towards the ship. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, tried to steady his heaving breaths.
“W-wait,” he rasped. They were already at the ramp, neither of them glanced back as he scrabbled up on shaky legs. He’d do better, he would. Just so long as he was with them. He stumbled forward, heard the hiss of the door closing as he drew nearer. He halted when he heard the whine of the engines, scrambled back when he heard them engage fully. His hands stung from where’d fallen as he watched it lift into the sky, as it turned and slowly faded into the atmosphere.
Crosshair was alone, with only the void and the bleeding remnants of where that little bundle had been to keep him company. In one final effort, he allowed the keening whine to drift up his throat. There was no response, the call having faded away into the stillness. He laid down.
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They came after a time. He didn’t know how long it was (hours, days, weeks?) before the impassive faces stared down at his prone form. A pair of boots nudged him, and he blinked at the hard faces. There were words, muffled undulations that he allowed to pass him by. One of them scoffed, shook their head, and nodded at a few of the others. Hard grips seized his arms, cool metal encircled his wrists, and he stumbled as they pulled him ungently towards the ship. They were gone, and the little golden ball with them. It was only the void now.